the heart plunges lower than night
by thebeatbuddha
Summary: "If your idea of seduction is trying to shag me with your mousy little eyes, Granger, then let me assure you that you are not going to get laid." A minor summer course in Literature turns out to be a lot more than Hermione expected. And it's all Tom Riddle's fault. (AU)
1. beginning, 4th june

**Title:** the heart plunges lower than night

 **Summary:** "If your idea of seduction is trying to shag me with your mousy little eyes, Granger, then let me assure you that you are not going to get laid." A minor summer course in Literature turns out to be a lot more than Hermione expected. And it's all Tom Riddle's fault. (AU)

 **Pairing** : Tom Riddle x Hermione Granger, Tom Riddle x Others, Hermione Granger x Others

 **Rating/Warning (s)** : (M) Explicit language, dark themes, sexual content

 **Disclaimer** : There is no Magic in this story - it is set in the present time. Canonically, there is at least a generational gap between Riddle's set and Hermione's set but in my story, there is only a three-year gap between them i.e. Hermione is twenty years old and Riddle is twenty-three years old. Hogwarts is an elite prep academy under Headmaster Dumbledore and Durmstrang Institute is a higher level university run by a Trust. The terms 'mudblood' and 'pureblood' indicate economic differences, with 'mudbloods' being students from poor, lower-class backgrounds. There is large-scale discrimination and prejudice based on these lines of division. Everything else shall be revealed as the story moves forward.

 **Note:** The story title is a line taken from the first verse of a William Carlos Williams' poem called _These_ , published in _Death The Barber._

* * *

.

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 **Fatality of Experience: Sex and Death in Literature** is an eight-week course taught across the months of June and July at Durmstrang Institute by leading professors from the Literary Thought and Discourse Department. "Sex and death are the only things that can interest a serious mind," wrote W. in a letter, indicating the creative individual's engagement with two of life's most fundamental experiences. Covering a comprehensive range of poets and writers from the Ancient Period to the Medieval, through the Renaissance to the Modern, the course examines themes of sex, love, power and death in various literary works, drawing links across time-frames and historical contexts.

All students - from within Durmstrang and beyond - are encouraged to apply. Further details are available on the Institute Website.

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* * *

 **.**

 **one** : june 4th, monday

.

* * *

Her hair looks atrocious.

Bloody hell, atrocious doesn't even begin to cover it.

How on Earth did it get to be this way? How had she _let_ it get this way? _This...this_ horrifying mop of misshapen curls? A deplorable bird's nest that the bird _clearly_ abandoned because _nothing_ would even be able to _breathe_ up in there.

There's a wild, harried moment where she considers how insufferably _vain_ she's being, how the last time she was _this_ bothered about the way she looked was when Ronald Weasley dumped her for Lavender Brown a few weeks ago and then she's scoffing, turning away, zipping up her bag, muttering furious reassurances to herself.

Resisting the urge to look in the mirror, she glances down at her wrist-watch instead. It reads 9:50. She growls an expletive far too loudly than she ordinarily would have and rams into the bathroom door. Of course she has to have a shoddy hair day today and _of course_ , this mess should make her late. _Late_ , for the very _first_ lecture. Just the thought of it makes her stomach turn.

The corridor is thick with a sea of incoming students and she has to plough her way through, muttering a frenzied _excuse me_ every time the crowd thickens in front of her, swelling like an odious throng of too many bodies. She's toeing the fine line between speed-walking and full out sprinting, no doubt making for what Ginny might call a _deplorably unattractive_ picture, what with her disjointed movements and her terrible, terrible hair.

If there's one thing Hermione Granger has managed _not_ to do during her stellar academic career, it's being late to class.

And yet here she is, resembling a harassed penguin as she hurries down yet another crowded corridor, looking around for Room Number 7. It doesn't help that her jeans are absolutely _new_ and thereby _extremely_ uncomfortable or that her flats seem to be making an odd squeaking sound against the linoleum floor. Shoving past a group of younger students, she finally rounds on the door of the _bloody_ classroom and comes to a hurtling standstill. Flicking her wrist, she looks at the watch again, wildly out of breath.

9:55, it reads.

She can faintly make out that someone is speaking on the other side of the door. The lecture has probably- no, scratch that, it has definitely started. The fact of it makes her stomach drop - she is _never_ late. Bloody fucking hair. Stupid fucking Weasley. All of it, stupid, stupid, stupid.

Muttering _fuck_ under her rushing breath as if to offer herself some kind of courage, she reaches for the handle - her mind caught up in a thousand remonstrations - and yanks the door open.

"-know me as Professor Snape. I have taugh-"

Any hopes for a noiseless, inconspicuous entrance fly right out of the window as her eyes find the familiar, intimidating figure of Severus Snape smack at the front of the classroom. Heads jerk to look at her, eyes burning into the side of her flushed cheek and she wills herself not to flinch as the Professor turns to regard the intrusion in an absurdly slow manner. She's sure he's moving _that_ slowly because he _wants_ to make her uncomfortable.

When his gaze does find hers, she feels like a deer caught in the fucking headlights. Nothing indicates his recognition of her and he clicks his tongue in an odd fashion, shaking his head in a picture-perfect demonstration of disappointment.

"Miss Granger," He tuts dispassionately and looks back slowly at the seated students in the class. "...Miss Granger here has provided us with an example of exactly that which _you_ are _not_ supposed to do in my lectures,"

She doesn't let her gaze stray to the classroom- the embarrassment is rising, colouring her cheeks an absurd shade of pink and she feels a desperate, juvenile urge to run out of the same through which she made such a _blasted_ entrance. Distantly, she takes note of the sniggering - somewhere from the black of the classroom. It's _almost_ enough to take her back to _Hogwarts_. _Almost_.

The Professor's sharp voice cuts into her reverie- effectively rescuing her from shuffling off into a recounting of how thoroughly _shite_ Hogwarts was, "Take a seat, Miss Granger," He tips his head to the desk right in front of him, the only one still empty. "Lest I change my mind,"

Relieved to the point of weakened knees and in need of no further encouragement, she scuttles - no really, she _scuttles_ \- to the seat, curbing the urge to mutter something foul at the sheer hostility of Snape. He's _always_ been like this towards her - right from when he was invited to deliver a series of guest lectures at Hogwarts. It's just her luck that she should not only be burdened with his patronizing, prejudiced self all through her undergraduate degree but _also_ have him teacha summer literature course - _of all things._ The sheer unfairness of it makes her head throb.

"I would expect, Miss Granger," He continues in that same arresting monotone, levelling her with a _look_. "...that you would know better than most other students in this class..." He punctuates this statement by gesturing at the classroom. "...given that I have been teaching you for two years now,"

There's some more sniggering - a round of muttering, followed by stifled chuckles. She flushes, reddening at the very public dressing down she's receiving like _some stupid child_ but does not look away from Snape. He can say whatever he wants - she's more thick-skinned than he gives her credit for.

"Sorry," is all she mutters, quiet enough only for him and the first row to hear.

Almost as if pacified, he turns around to walk over to his desk, leafing through the papers arranged neatly on it. _Intelligent professor, my arse_ , she thinks bitterly, _more like condescending dickhead_ and casts a curious first look around the room.

She spots Luna Lovegood towards the back, staring out the window, Seamus Finnigan laughing at somebody's joke - a range of unfamiliar faces, possibly seniors that she doesn't know of or students from other institutions; then Neville Longbottom who gives her a patient smile, and there - Antony Goldstein and Hannah Abbott sitting together in a corner. Momentarily, she wishes that Ron and Harry were here with her - it seems strange to be in a space littered with Hogwarts students and to not have the two of them around.

To her right, she catches sight of the people she has most _dreaded_ seeing; Pansy Parkinson, Astoria Greengrass and Draco Malfoy, alongside three other vaguely familiar faces. Seniors, she confirms to herself. Two very similar looking dark-haired boys, siblings perhaps and one very striking girl with a full, sensuous mouth. She recognizes the girl after staring at the mass of dark, curly hair awhile - Bellatrix. More a stripper pseudonym than an _actual name_ , Hermione scoffs to herself.

They're whispering amongst themselves about something - brows furrowed, mouths downturned and Hermione can't help the ugly anger that flickers within her. There seems to be no escaping _them._

The class is drifting to louder interactions, chattering excitedly, a direct result of Snape's preoccupation with the papers at his desk. She turns back around to face the front, ignoring mentions of her name that are proliferating the hushed conversations behind her. She feels an unreasonable surge of fear - _Mudblood_ \- and scolds herself internally for having signed up for this stupid course in the first place.

 _What_ had she been thinking? That it was summer and all the people she was familiar with would have _better_ things to do than sign up for an extra-credit course? _Why are_ the _Purebloods_ taking this class? That particular phrase makes her flinch inwardly. Furthermore, why on Earth is Severus Snape conducting these lectures? Shouldn't he be abroad somewhere in the 'Tropics' to carry out 'invaluable' research as he'd done in the previous summers?

Her post-school hopes that the Durmstrang Institute would be a welcome change from the bigotry at large in Hogwarts had all but been shredded in the past three years. While nobody insulted her outright with choice slurs or tried to pick actual, physical fights with her as they had in Hogwarts, bias took other, far more insidious forms in Durmstrang- manifesting in the biting remarks of Severus Snape and Alecto Carrow, in the complete social boycott of her by the _Purebloods_ in all spaces beyond the classroom, in the constant placing of her in second position so that Draco Malfoy snagged first place.

Three years at Durmstrang had disillusioned her, rendering her faith in _fair_ and _stringent_ policies obsolete as she picked up on the many covert ways in which she was denied equal opportunity as a result of her _background._

However, she had been significantly better off than most other _Mudbloods,_ who faced regular physical violence, verbal abuse and explicit discrimination in other institutes. It's why she'd continued to stay on - despite _everything,_ because her idea of suffering was awfully relative and she would not relinquish the paltry privileges of Durmstrang for the _struggle_ that lay beyond its doors.

Noise dies down as the Professor raises both his hands, commanding silence without a word- she is forced to pay attention. She silently begrudges him this kind of power, this kind of fear Snape instills in his students.

"We're just waiting on a student of mine to arrive and then we shall finally begin," He says quietly.

Hermione bristles - _waiting on a student?_ What kind of _special fucking_ student is he making them all wait for? Her cheeks feel warm and her head is throbbing again. A pureblood, no doubt. What's worse is that nobody seems to have a problem with this, _this_ bizarre display of favouritism. Just as she is about to raise her hand because she'll be damned before she lets _this_ happen, the classroom door swings open.

As he walks into the room, she thinks that he _really_ shouldn't have the right to look this _good._

Tall and lean, dressed impeccably in a leather jacket and black jeans, with a mouth caught somewhere between a smirk and a smile, he's a strange, disturbing kind of vision. His alluring features - dark, unreadable eyes, perfect nose, sharp cut of his jaw and the _fuck-me_ hair - make her hyper-aware of just how _unattractive_ she looks today.

Her reflection comes to mind and she tugs at her hair, despite her better judgement. He's devastatingly _beautiful,_ as if carved right from marble with all the perfection of a Michelangelo put to work and she berates herself for drawing a terrible, _classical_ comparison. Next she'll be describing him as a _demigod_ , in the cliched and besotted manner of girls _and guys_ that she'd scorned in Hogwarts.

A warning voice in her head is screeching _pureblood_ over and over again and somewhere also, something is niggling at her brain because she _knows_ this face without ever having seen it before, she does. All that she is really conscious of however, as she watches him come to a stop, pale hand tightening around a bag strap, is the way he moves - like water, powerful and elegant, arresting attention without doing anything at all.

"Here's our very own Byronic hero," A loud, clear voice cuts through the chattering in the class and she looks back to see that it's Pansy Parkinson who spoke, smiling so widely that it's almost comical because she never thought the girl could _smile_.

Beside Parkison, Bellatrix has a smirk playing on her lips, her eyes fixed to the handsome figure. The two dark-haired brothers cheer loudly, somebody whistles and there's some hooting at the other end of the classroom from a set of students she doesn't recognize. It's almost like having a celebrity walk in and she catches Snape chuckling - _chuckling_ like an actual human being.

It's possibly the most bizarre thing she's seen in her life and mind you, she's seen a bunch. She's friends with the Weasley twins after all and _yet_ their antics have nothing on the scene unfolding before her. Have pigs started flying? Is the sky green now? What on _Earth_ is happening? Is this some kind of a dream? Maybe she needs to pinch herself and th-

"Take a seat, go on," Snape instructs, his voice confusingly upbeat as he regards his favourite student.

 _Pureblood_ , her brain kicks in finally and she realizes just _who_ this _Byronic hero_ is as he makes his way towards the back of the classroom, brushing past her seat and sparing no stray glances. A whiff of cologne and smoke. The barest graze of cool leather against her bare forearm.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

She turns her head to follow him in morbid curiosity as he weaves his way through the desks to drop down in a chair - _where had it come from?_ \- right beside Bellatrix. There's a familiarity between the two of them that makes her feel like she's witnessing something private and as he leans forward, _doomed perfect male specimen_ , to press a light kiss to Bellatrix's temple, Hermione Granger feels the strangest sense of fascination invading her mind. Sifting through facts and rumours, stories and myths - she wonders how much of what she knows is _true._

Who hasn't heard of Tom Riddle? The dark horse. The sanctioned rebel. Famed not only for his philandering, seductive wiles with _both_ men and women but also for his remarkable academic achievements and athletic prowess, Riddle had always been more legend than person both within the walls of Hogwarts and beyond it. Notorious for the enigma that surrounded him throughout his life, Riddle had been a point of interest for _nearly everybody._ Seemingly, he still is.

She recalls Harry's distrust of Riddle - something about dappling in illicit activities and screwing people over - and wonders what Ginny would think if she were here. Ginny would be over the fucking moon - there had been a point during their Fifth Year when she had so obsessed with Tom Riddle, the charming Head-Boy three years their senior, that she nearly asked him out on a date. Hermione and Harry had had the sense to stop her - fault lines beyond the _mudblood_ and _pureblood_ dichotomy had also existed in Hogwarts.

Slytherin and Gryffindor. Infamous rivalry between the two school houses. Something that been as compelling as it had been terrifying. Something that Hermione looked back at with disdain.

She sucks in a breath, grateful for when Professor Snape _finally_ starts speaking because it brings her back to this classroom, to her humiliating entrance, to all the _hopes_ she'd pinned to this course. There are more sniggers, another mention of _Hermione_ and _mudblood_ that makes her fist clench. She whips out a notebook from her bag, flipping it open to a blank page. Uncapping a black pen, she looks back up at Snape's impassive face, refusing to respond to the hissing behind her.

So much for a _peaceful_ summer.

"Welcome, students, to your extra-credit summer course," He begins slowly. "Since _la petit mort_ is as ubiquitous and infamous as sex-death related phrases go, I will attempt to make no allusion to it in my lectures. I would be an _inadequate_ educator if I made such an error."

The class collectively chuckles, students regarding each other sheepishly because all of them have thought of the phrase as soon as they were told this course would look at the themes of sex and death.

"While _some_ of _you_ -" A meaningful look is cast at Hermione and she schools her expression of disdain into a grimacing smile. "-may be predisposed to question this judgement, given that this course examines the themes of love, desire and death across prescribed texts, I _ask_ that you withhold your objections till the end of this week," There's a pause as Snape lets his gaze flit from face to face, meeting all the attentive eyes fixed to his imposing figure.

"Over the next eight weeks, I hope to engage all of _you_ in discussions that are obscure, challenging and far more fascinating. Do not make the mistake of thinking this a simple course. Literature that explores the aforementioned themes is not _perverted_ or _straightforward_ but in fact, extremely complex. We are going to be studying the _most_ fundamental human experiences and I promise that you will be challenged every step of the way,"

Hermione hates it but his words send a pleasurable thrill down her spine - _finally_ , it begins. The pursuit of knowledge, that one aching passion that she has nurtured all her life. Horrible as Snape might be, he knows how to deliver a good lecture. He knows exactly what to say, where to press and where not to - how best to make use of his snark so as to keep his students engaged. She begrudges him this power too - at one point when her anger had truly peaked, she had wished that his teaching be as disagreeable as his personality but now she is grateful for it.

It's in his lectures that she has learned the most. It's in his lectures that she is most challenged. And it's in his lectures that Hermione Granger can forget everything and _focus_ on the newness of the information, the near-intoxicating pleasure of _knowing._

"What is the name of this paper?" Snape finally asks, folding his arms across his chest.

The answer is on the tip of her tongue, her arm mid-way to indicate that she _knows-_

"Professor, it's c-"

"Fatality of Experience: Sex and Death in Literature," A quiet, commanding voice cuts her off and she doesn't have to turn around to know who it is.

Riddle. The earlier fury at the _Purebloods_ rears in her stomach again and she beats away the urge to complain at the _unfairness_ of this. It's a classroom, people put up their hands - there are _rules._ She hears Pansy's laugh - a mocking sound, egging her on, provoking her just for the sake of it but Hermione looks down at the pen in her hand, refusing to be so easily stirred.

Snape doesn't reprimand Riddle - _why would he?_ \- and in her mounting frustration with the abysmal turn of events, she tunes the professor out as he continues to speak. Long minutes trickle by, dotted with interactions between the students and Snape and if her silence is too obvious - given her propensity to answer _all the time_ \- nobody says anything to her about it. So many things swim through her head and she feels another pang of longing for Harry, or Ginny; just that sense of comfort she's always had with them.

At some point, the lecture comes to a close and seats are emptied, students picking off a sheet of paper from Snape's desk as they make their exit. It's probably the syllabus and a reading list. Hermione feels _their_ eyes burning into the back of her head as she slips her notebook into the bag and gets to her feet. Her hair feels like an untrimmed thicket, her sneakers too scruffy, her t-shirt overwashed and she hates the burn of insecurity as a lump forms in her throat, all of it a result of those damned purebloods.

She's twenty years old, for fuck's sake. She _should_ not be intimidated by a couple of inquisitive, invasive looks. Hissing under her breath, she walks over to the desk and reaches for the sheet just as another hand reaches for it. Pale, thin fingers and a silver ring - Luna Lovegood is standing there beside her. The pale, beautiful girl is dressed in various shades of blue - the _only_ person who would actually look _good_ in such an ensemble - and there's a relaxed smile on her face, something that reminds Hermione of Harry a little too much.

"Hi Hermione," Luna's voice has almost always been musical, her accent particular and attractive.

Hermione nods at her, unsure of what to do or say. Luna picks off the sheet from the table, her stunning grey eyes never once leaving Hermione's. "Do you want to get a cup of coffee with me?"

Well, that's unexpected. Hermione spots Malfoy coming up behind Luna and mutters a quick _sure_ before hurriedly grabbing a sheet from the table, turning just as fast to walk out of the room. To her continued surprise, Luna catches up with her - reeking of expensive, _wonderful_ perfume - and links her arm with Hermione's as if they've been friends for years. She's saying something in that musical voice again, dreamy and pretty all at once and Hermione feels overwhelmed at this display of kindness, of kinship. A part of her wants to be suspicious, want to question _why_ Luna is with her right now.

Tears prick her eyes and Hermione Granger resists the urge to cry - _mudblood mudblood mudblood_ ringing in her head. Luna gives her arm a squeeze, laughing in that lovely lilting way that Hermione had noticed in school and she focuses on what the pale girl is saying. There's a watery smile on Hermione's face and she feels like just _maybe_ this summer can be saved.

* * *

Tom Riddle pulls out a cigarette from the expensive silver case and offers it to Alphard. The older Black takes it and puts it to his mouth, using his own sophisticated lighter with practised ease. The glow of the flame distorts Alphard's face momentarily - light freckles more prominent in the orange glow - and then with a click, he is all shadows again. Tom lights his own cigarette with a match - he's always found lighters too cumbersome and pretentious and takes a long, fulfilling drag. Evening spills around the two of them in purple, bruising shades, the sun having set behind them, beyond the bus-stop.

"It's been a while, Riddle," Alphard speaks finally, blowing out a ring of smoke, an action that reminds Tom of their school days, of a _very specific_ school day actually.

His eyes linger at the curve of Alphard's mouth - the git has the _nerve_ to smirk - before he looks away to the road in front of them. Tom sees no sense in responding to Black's comment - he's never been one to waste words and he's not about to start now. He takes another long drag, feeling a soft burn at his throat before expelling the smoke in a languid manner that draws Alphard's gaze to his lips.

Then Tom speaks,

"I'm surprised that you and Cygnus took up this course,"

Alphard shrugs, "Snape's teaching it. It would have been negligent on my part to not have signed up,"

"And Cygnus?"

"Enjoys the company of Pansy Parkinson immensely,"

"She is a very attractive woman,"

"Don't even start, Tom,"

He recognizes that exasperated tone of voice - Alphard reveals far more in the dark than in the light, as Tom had learned long ago. The warning is in there somewhere, obscured and discoloured and it amuses Tom that they're still playing these games. He fixes his gaze to the flowering hedge across the road, admiring the way it looks in this particular light.

"Are you warning me off, Alphard?"

"Wouldn't dream of it, Tom," Black returns evenly, stubbing his cigarette on the side of a dustbin near him. His eyes follow Tom's to gaze at the hedge as he shoves both his hands into his jacket pockets.

There's a heavy silence, something awfully familiar about it for both of them and then Tom laughs softly, an odd sound that seems louder than it is.

"I'm not interested in Parkinson so don't worry," He stubs his cigarette on the side of the bus-stop bench. "Your little brother deserves compensation for what happened last year anyway,"

There's a noticeable shift in the atmosphere - from the languid tension of minutes passed to a near-aggressive hostility as Alphard turns to look at Tom, his gaze unreadable, his mouth set in a grim line.

"Don't talk about Pansy like that," He says tightly, as if he's trying very hard to be polite. "Women are _not_ compensation,"

Tom laughs - it's a haunting, delicious sound and _fuck,_ it throws Alphard off. "It's so easy to get a rise out of you, Black,"

Alphard expels a harsh breath, itching to grab Tom by the collar of his perfect button-up and shake him hard enough for his perfect hair to get messed up or something but he doesn't move in Tom's direction at all. Clenches his fists in the pockets. Turns away instead and looks down at his shoes - shiny and black.

They stand in odd silence for several minutes, unmoving. Tom pulls out another cigarette and notes how the hedge across the road is now more obscure, more difficult to look at. Light is fast disappearing and night will soon fall. He feels the first twinge of something in his gut - _excitement_ \- and he puts the cigarette to his mouth, lighting it with a match. Alphard looks at him again then and they hold each other's gaze for a restless moment, caught in _remembrance_ before Tom clears his throat and finds the question he's mulled over all through the afternoon.

"What's Malfoy's obsession with that Muggle girl? Grover...Gr-something?"

Alphard looks away to the road stretching out to his left, surprised by such an enquiry. "It's Granger." He pauses, as if thinking. "You don't know what happened between them?" There's a suggestion of something in his voice, Tom notes - an incredulity, perhaps.

It makes Tom uncomfortable - a little angry even, because _he,_ of all people, is _not_ to be questioned. "No, Malfoy never told me..." He blows out smoke and is grateful for how impassive he sounds. "...and besides, he prefers confiding in you, if memory serves me correctly,"

"It isn't confidential, Tom," Alphard seems to be chiding him now and Tom has to restrain himself from spitting out something vile and cruel. He's never been particularly patient.

He twirls the cigarette in his fingers, glancing up at the sky as if to indicate that he's _waiting._

When Alphard finally speaks, his voice is light, full of a smile. "She punched him in Fourth Year."

This comment earns him a short laugh from Tom who doesn't look as forbidding as he had just moments ago. Always shifting from mood to mood, never a constant in him.

"Why has he held onto that for so many years?" Tom asks finally, more amused than curious.

Alphard gives him another look - as if saying _how do you not know this?_ \- and then speaks in a quieter, more controlled manner,

"She's a Mudblood, that's why,"

* * *

Hermione takes a long hot shower. Uses the pomegranate shampoo that Ginny had sent over last week. Scrubs herself particularly hard as if to rid herself of all the stares she got during the day. Lets the water run over her in its own hot fury, slipping between her breasts, down the slope of her back, trickling from her calves down onto the tiled floor. She only leaves the cubicle when it feels like her head might explode from the overwhelming heat.

Grabbing a towel from the rail, she pats herself down. Satisfied with how much better she feels, she twists all of her thick hair into the towel and yanks a white dressing gown on her small form before stepping out into her bedroom.

The desk by the window is covered in books, sheets of paper and other odd tidbits that she hasn't bothered to put back in the wardrobe. There's a bra hanging from the chair that she looks curiously at before dismissing it. The lamp's on - casting a soft, amber glow in the room and the air-conditioning makes a soft humming noise that she'd once had a lot of trouble getting used to. Padding across the room in her grown and a pair of 'hotel' slippers, she makes for the bed.

Her laptop is sat neatly on the covers and she taps the Power button. Watches the screen flicker on and types in her password hurriedly. She clicks to open the browser and pauses then - considering something. She'll meet Harry this coming weekend - that'll be another source of information for her. Nodding to herself, she then proceeds to type out his name - _tom riddle_ \- into the search bar. She wonders once more about Ginny and the inevitable hassle there'll be, once she tells the ginger about her new classmate.

She looks at the letters of his name slowly, sighs at her own ridiculous behaviour and pushes the _Enter_ key.

* * *

a/n: this idea's been clawing at me awhile now. very excited to be writing about these two, can't wait to share the rest of this story with you. drop reviews, comments, insight. lots of light and love to you!


	2. night excerpts & 5th june

**Title:** the heart plunges lower than night

 **Summary:** "If your idea of seduction is trying to shag me with your mousy little eyes, Granger, then let me assure you that you are not going to get laid." A minor summer course in Literature turns out to be a lot more than Hermione expected. And it's all Tom Riddle's fault. (AU)

 **Pairing** : Tom Riddle x Hermione Granger, Tom Riddle x Others, Hermione Granger x Others

 **Rating/Warning (s)** : (M) Explicit language, dark themes, sexual content

 **Disclaimer** : There is no Magic in this story - it is set in the present time. Canonically, there is at least a generational gap between Riddle's set and Hermione's set but in my story, there is only a three-year gap between them i.e. Hermione is twenty years old and Riddle is twenty-three years old. Hogwarts is an elite prep academy under Headmaster Dumbledore and Durmstrang Institute is a higher level university run by a Trust. The terms 'mudblood' and 'pureblood' indicate economic differences, with 'mudbloods' being students from poor, lower-class backgrounds. There is large-scale discrimination and prejudice based on these lines of division. Everything else shall be revealed as the story moves forward.

 **Note:** The story title is a line taken from the first verse of a William Carlos Williams' poem called _These_ , published in _Death The Barber._.

* * *

 **.**

 **two** : 4th june, monday ( _a late night excerpt)_

 _._

* * *

The only social media page in Tom Riddle's name that she finds is a sparsely-updated Facebook page.

It seems fitting that the enigmatic, all-too-mysterious Tom Riddle should have a persona that is carefully constructed through only one website, limited and far too challenging to grasp from just that one page. His profile picture - she notes - is a photograph taken in a heavily decorated Great Hall, in Hogwarts and she deduces from his ruffled hair, twinkling eye and formal suit that it's from his Graduation. Bellatrix is pulled up next to him, wearing a deep mauve dress that sets off the amber of her eyes, an impossibly happy smiling working at her lips. It's a lovely picture, Hermione concedes, letting her gaze linger on Tom Riddle's face just a moment longer.

If Ginny knew, she would throw a fit and Hermione knows that she'll have to tell the Weasley soon enough. It's only logical that she should - at the _earliest_.

She shuts the picture and clicks on the _About_ section. Her eyes roam over the details there - only Hogwarts and Durmstrang are mentioned, without any home addresses or cities given. Hardly curious or odd - it's only consistent with the myth he's created so consciously around himself.

She recalls how she'd often found his name scrawled on the back of toilet doors - obscene things written below it; some accusations, some confessions. She remembers one particular day when she'd raced into a cubicle on the ground floor and slammed the door shut because Malfoy's cronies had simply _refused_ to leave her alone. She'd found another inscription near his name, something that floats up to the surface of her mind now, almost haunting:

 _his name sits on my tongue for days / i want for nothing but all of him_

She'd laughed at it then - what a _load_ of _pretentious_ bullshit. At the moment, however - as she clicks through the _Tagged Photos,_ sifting through pieces of his life, she doesn't feel like laughing. It's almost ominous - like some strange kind of warning. It makes her cheeks warm too - that someone could _feel_ so _intensely_ about _him._ She pauses at a sunny picture of him, those two black-haired brothers, Malfoy and another unidentified, handsome boy. The tags help her put names to faces - the taller brother is Alphard Black, the shorter one is Cygnus Black and the unfamiliar face is a name she's only heard once before; Scabior.

Harry had mentioned it once, in a whispered accusation about a _kidnapping_ and she remembers thinking how unusual the name had sounded. All of the five boys - _guys? men? -_ are wearing swimming trunks and flip-flops and she notes that the picture was put up at the end of May. Fairly recent, then. They're standing on a white-sand beach with a dazzling blue water sprawling out behind them. It looks like a Cornish beach- a place she's only been to once, with _Ron_. Despite wanting to tap away to the next photo because _memories_ are meddlesome, she pauses to notice that they all have a similar tattoo on their forearms - nothing she can make out too clearly.

It brings a soft smile to her face - a group of friends getting the same tattoo is nothing short of _sweet_ , even if they're all probably stuck-up, insufferable Purebloods. All of them are lean and athletic and she can make out that Riddle's got _more_ tattoos but since he's stood at the back of the group, the view is obscured. She glances at the matching tattoos once more, oddly curious and then clicks away.

A blurry picture of Riddle with the Greengrass sisters, somewhere in Central London, late at night. Another blurry shot of him and Alphard, looking _intensely_ at each other - from the little that she can make out. It looks as if these photos were taken with a film camera - _expensive_ tastes for _expensive_ people, she thinks bitterly. Anger flares in her stomach at that reminder and she shuts the profile page, mildly ashamed for having spent a significant portion of her time looking at photos of _Tom Riddle._ The enigmatic epitome of Pureblood supremacy, good looks be damned.

In the confused spirit of making one terrible decision after another and wasting even more time - somehow, just _somehow_ \- she winds up on Ron's Instagram page.

* * *

He dreams about the Orphanage.

All of it comes to him in fragments - as if he were looking through mirrors. At first, he sees himself - ten images reflected in ten glass rectangles, smoke curling at his feet and then the ground slips out from beneath him. He falls. Through a blanket of darkness, more awful and blinding than night. Cold streams in from the distance, rushing in to press against his throat with all the familiarity of a lover's hand. Black fades away, rushes off into grey clouds of smoke - thickening, growing, _rising._ There's only a hint of fear, a hushed murmuring at the back of his head.

Then the corridor appears, dimly-lit with that swaying bulb, the freshly-scrubbed wood glistening. Silence grows in the empty space as if it were _alive_ and he feels it rushing in like the cold, right for the throat. A force pushes at the back of his head, fixing his gaze to his unpolished, muddied shoes. Another curling lick of fear, hollow in his stomach. His shoes are dirty. He is _dirty._ He shouldn't be here. He _cannot_ be here.

When his legs start moving forward, he screams.

 _No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no,_

 _no, no, no, no, no, no,_

 _no, no, no, no, no, no,_

 _no, no, oh GOD._

The whip comes out of seemingly nowhere, catching him right between his shoulder blades, soundless condemnation. Pain is brief and stinging, his body caught more surprise than by any real hurt. Then it comes back down on him, harder and he feels the skin of his back split open just as he yelps. Like a pathetic child. Warm blood trickles from the wound, wetting the thin material of his shirt but his legs just keep moving. Striding forward. One muddied shoe after the other. Leaving tracks.

Lash after lash after lash after lash after lash until he's sure that there's more blood on his back than there is skin - his knees are buckling, his fists clenched, his body falling forward in an awkward, oddly slow manner. But there are no tears, he tells himself. There is only that white expanse shutting everything else off in his head - growing and expanding, a curious unfeelingness, swallowing, numbing, reaching into him.

No tears. No more tears. His back is on fire and he thinks this is an ending of some kind, something final and permanent. He knocks his head hard on the wooden ground when he falls, unable to brace himself. A loud noise, somewhere inside him, somewhere beyond him.

A numbing swell of pain, dim and soft at the corner of his head. Reaching for him. Reaching inside. Blood pooling on his back, dripping down the sides of him, no sound, no sound, no pain, no pain - that silence has found him again, shifting like a real thing, electricity on his skin, feverish burn right in the centre of his brain.

"Oh Tom, what did I tell you about wearing those filthy shoes in here?"

He can't move - something has paralyzed him, perhaps _fear_ \- perhaps self-preservation but he doesn't need to look up to _know_ this voice. He'd know it beyond death, he'd know it in his fucking grave - blood is trickling from his mouth and he realizes that he's bitten his tongue. _Where_ is the pain?

" _Tom_ ," The voice seems to grow in stature, monstrous as it should be - as it _truly_ is and the whip comes down, catching an older wound.

He bites his tongue again - mouth full of blood, dribbling down his chin, clenching his fists to contain the pain. _Contain_ the pain. Keep it inside - tightly wound like any other secret. Quiet and threatening, all inside him.

"What did I tell you about those filthy shoes?" A shadow behind him, the cold rushing in, forcing his face into the wood - "You filthy-"

Tom jerks awake, panting.

Visions swim before his eyes - matronly dress illuminated by candlelight, frost lingering at the window, brown grass beneath bare feet, the lashings at night, the gruel by day. His throat feels tight and his chest is heavy as if something's pressing down on him. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, hands shaking when he raises to look at them in the blue light of morning. Trembling. He's fucking trembling. It's despicable.

Snapping at himself furiously, he surges to his feet and loses balance, as if he's been standing still in moving waters and now, _suddenly_ there's a change in the currents. The constriction of his throat seems to increase and he catches the moon in the sky, a silver phantom before he's gagging, doubling over, legs week. Hard to tell if he's drowning or not - whether the tide has turned against him, whether he was _ever_ as safe as he thought he'd be.

It takes fifteen minutes for the gagging to dissipate and for him to take a breath that doesn't make his chest hurt. _Fuck._ He hasn't had these _fucking_ nightmares in months now. His hands are still trembling. He presses them to the sides of his legs, straightening so that he can look out of the three-window view. Pale moon smiles at him mockingly, at safe distance. Everything, always - at safe distance.

He wonders if it's because he's been sleeping alone again - if these tricks of his mind know exactly _when_ to come for him, if these hallucinations sense his _vulnerability_ and make their way out to the surface. He wonders, he does. For a few stuttering seconds, it is hopeless. He is doomed. He feels the whip at his shoulder, a ghost without form. He hears the voice, a monster in the dark. He can smell the polish of the wood and it makes his head spin. _Fuck._

Breathing out deeply, he steps closer to the windows and can spot the faintest trickle of light at the horizon, indicating the beginning of yet another day. His cigarettes are lying by the bed but he doesn't move towards them. Simply steps forward again so that he can look out over the street - deserted and cold, unborn at this time of day. He estimates the time to be somewhere between four and five A.M. Glancing back at the bed, he realizes that he's not going to get any more sleep. Fleetingly, he thinks of calling Alphard.

But he doesn't have the words - he _barely_ has any breath. Everything seems to be fast disappearing around him, just like the smoke in the dream. His eyes drop down his arm to the tattoo and trace the familiar, reassuring serpent. This is a fight against a familiar enemy - against the most personal and intimate enemy. His own mind. His fingers come to rest on the serpent, trailing over the curves of it and he reminds himself as he's always done,

 _[ this is the pain of becoming. all snakes must shed their skin ]_

* * *

.

 **two** : 5th june, tuesday (fuller pictures)

 _._

* * *

The morning of the second day sees all the students seated in Room Number 7 at exactly quarter to ten o'clock.

The division between Purebloods and Mudbloods is distinct, clear and unimpeachable - the former set lounges at the back of the class, dressed in dark colours and the latter group keeps to the front of the class, on the right. Spaces between them are filled with the inbetweeners themselves, what many people call the _Half-bloods._ There's very little mingling with the back of the class - all the middle and forward groups chatter excitedly amongst themselves.

To the extreme right is the small Hogwarts group- Neville, in a wickedly floral shirt and Luna sitting beside him in an equally absurd outfit that is _at least_ seven different colours, along with Seamus and Antony who are both deep in conversation with Hannah Abott. Hannah's hair is much shorter than it was in school- tinged with green at the tips and Seamus has a noticeable tattoo at the side of his neck.

Hermione's sitting directly behind Neville and Luna with her arms folded across her chest, determined to go against _all_ of her instincts to look _back_ to where _they're_ sitting. Hours of stalking have rendered her over-familiar with _their_ lives and she doesn't know what to make of it.

She remembers a little too clearly how she'd spent a good sixty minutes _\- at least_ , after all her Tom Riddle research _-_ on Ronald's Instagram. Halting over pictures of him and Lavender Brown. Sinking into that awful, numbing sensation of being cast side. Holding back tears. Wondering what to call that desperate urge to crawl inside herself and never come out. She'd fallen asleep in a numb kind of stupor.

She'd woken up -however- with remarkable energy propelling her into taking an early run. It's this energy that loosens her shoulders today, that allows her to sit back in the chair and just _enjoy_ being with familiar faces without any of _that_ fear. Some part of her knows that this moment is just one of _many_ moments in time but she's savouring it - all of yesterday put away.

When Professor Snape strides in, impeccable in a two-piece dark navy suit, the class drops into a sharp silence. He's got his briefcase with him today - she can tell by the tightness of his jaw that he's probably come straight from some kind of an official meeting. Snape has never liked those tedious events - she's noticed that much in the three years that he's taught her. He sets his case on the table with an audible thud and turns around to face them. Face schooled into that impassive mask. Eyes sweeping across the room imperiously.

He clears his throat. "Miss Parkison," He barks suddenly and there's some mild chatter before a demure _Yes_ is heard from the back of the class.

Snape's face is immovable as his gaze shifts. Hermione watches, stomach knotting in anticipation. That's as bizarre as an opening to a lecture goes, she thinks.

"Mister Goldstein," He commands with a turn of his head towards their group and Hermione has to will herself - _once more -_ not to flinch.

There's more chattering around the class, whispers of _what is he doing_ and _are they in trouble_ doing rounds through groups as the two named students rise to their feet by their desks, perfectly decorous, awaiting further instructions.

"You two are paired for the duration of the next one hour," Snape explains finally, putting to rest all of the questions rushing through class conversations. "Each paired set of students must go to the Library, pick up an excerpt from any literary text that seems relevant to the course's brief. After coming to a conclusion about which text is best suited to th-"

"Sir," Pansy cuts him off and it's as if the class collectively takes a sharp breath.

Hermione throws restriction to wind and swivels around in her seat, like countless others to look at the _first_ student who has probably _ever_ interrupted Severus Snape. Some part of her wonders _why_ on _Earth_ Pansy Parkinson would make the poor decision of cutting in like this. It seems as if the rest of the class is hyper-aware of this mistake too and low murmurs ripple through the students, like muted fire.

Pansy's wearing a set of grey - long, flowing pants and a matching short top that highlights her delicate waist. Her sleek bob only flatters her sharp, attractive face and her mouth is pressed in a firm line, no aspect of her reflecting any kind of hesitation or second-thought. Her back is ramrod straight, her eyes meeting Snape's in absolute confidence. Hermione spots the older of the two brothers - _Alphard Black_ \- shaking his head, muttering confidentially to Astoria Greengrass and there's a strange look on Draco Malfoy's face.

There's no Tom Riddle there, nor Bellatrix and she feels both the barest flicker of disappointment and the twinge of anxiety.

"I cannot be partnered with... _him,_ " Pansy says finally, in a quiet and controlled manner, jerking her head to emphasise the distaste that is carried in the tone of voice.

Snape is stone, he reveals nothing. When he speaks, it is like having a wall speak. "I believe I made myself clear yesterday itself when I said that I will not be questioned by any of the students before the first week is out," There's a buzz in the classroom, all eager eyes lapping up the strange display before them. "And as for Mister Goldstein," He points to the blonde boy before looking back at Pansy. "...he is your partner for this assignment."

Pansy looks like she might say something more - might even make her _reasons_ more _plain_ but Astoria's fingers slip around the girl's wrist and tug her down. She sinks back into her seat after a brief searing locking of eyes with Malfoy, then the Black and Hermione watches their silent communication, as does the rest of the class in mild awe.

"I'd thank you, Miss Parkinson," Snape says in the same montone, his eyes fixed to her. "...for not wasting my time like this ever again,"

The warning hangs in there, obscured by the tone of his voice and then Snape's rattling names off some mental list, pairing Pureblood with Mudblood, Halfblood with Mudblood, Halfblood with Pureblood if one were to look at it that way- leaving severe scowls on some faces, furtive glances here and there. Paying absolutely _no_ heed to the reaction his students seem to be having to his blatant disregard for the _norm_ , he continues in his drastically empty voice.

 _Find a text you think is relevant. Take a part of it, if it's prose or the whole of it, it's poetry. Discuss it with your partner. Put both your thoughts down on paper. Submit._

When Hermione's name is called - almost at the end, she fights away the urge to shut her eyes. She watches Snape instead and catches her partner's name just as she catches his gaze - _Alphard Black._ Of course she'd end up with one of _them._ Her heart is ramming in her chest and she watches the tall, dark-haired boy makes his way through the classroom to her. His face is unreadable, closed off to any scrutiny or analysis and Hermione feels so awfully out of her depth that she thinks her knees might give in.

Luna gives her shoulder a squeeze before she walks out with her partner - a lovely girl from Beauxbatons and Hermione tries not to feel too badly about it. She'd take anyone over _them._ She hasn't forgotten the kind of treatment she was given at Hogwarts, by Malfoy and the _others_ and it takes all of her strength to keep her standing there by the desk, waiting for Alphard Black.

He's dressed in a white tee-shirt and grey track pants, cutting a striking figure in the room, despite the semi-casual nature of his outfit and he comes to a stop near her. Pretty - yes, pretty, _really_ \- features in a perfectly unreadable expression, he regards her seriously for a moment and then sticks out his large hand as if to initiate a handshake.

"Hey," His voice is mellow, almost timid and there's a smile in his eyes that throws her off. "I'm Alphard Black,"

She has the ridiculous urge to say, _Hello, I've seen your abs_ and quashes it effectively by putting her hand in his, opening her mouth to offer her own name when -

"Mr. Black, this is certainly not the playground," Snape admonishes from behind them, his tone mocking. "Take your handshakes elsewhere - or better yet, take Miss Granger to the Library and surprise us all with some responsibility,"

* * *

Black turns out to be shockingly silent (no slurs, no dirty looks, no shoves) and Hermione is almost sure that pigs _really_ have started flying or perhaps, more realistically, the damn boy is _possessed._

He doesn't speak all that much - not until they make it to the bookshelves and she reluctantly admires his evident dislike for small-talk. The silence between them is not uncomfortable - only _new_ and it falls away when they both stop at the _Literature_ section, right beside the _Classical Literature_ section. The decidedly less populated part of the library - a space with as many as four floors, almost too well-stocked. Her sanctum. Her safe space. The only place she knows better than The Burrow.

"Granger," His voice cuts into her reverie and she's pulled back from slipping into a memory-coma related to Ron. Her eyes flicker up to his and she feels oddly exposed. "You'd gotten a very far away look on your face just there,"

She flushes faintly, stepping back to lean against the shelf, grateful for at least _that_ familiarity. "Sorry," She mutters, looking down to the row of books, wondering what might best suit Snape's brief.

He doesn't speak again for a good ten minutes as the two of them peruse the shelves from different ends. At some point, she feels her self-consciousness leaving as she's tugged into the all-too-familiar and all-too-consuming world of books. Her fingers trail over the spines, spotting name after name - Shakespeare, Marlowe, Bacon, Johnson, Webster - and she crouches down when she catches sight of _John Donne -_ _The Major Works: including Songs and Sonnets and Sermons_ sitting between two critical essay books. She pulls the book out, flipping it open to the introductory pages. Nodding to herself, she thinks that _this_ could do.

Just as she turns to face Black, he too turns and they're both holding a book each, looking odd and awkward. His face is unreadable again, as if he might be working through internal conflict and she is just trying hard not to say something insipid about all the pictures she came across last night. She is also trying not to be afraid - _he_ is Malfoy's friend after all. It's almost as if he's heard what she's thinking because he looks right at her, with something odd in his gaze - a question, maybe.

Hermione's never liked eye-contact, it's _invasive_ but she does not look away from him. He clears his throat and speaks finally,

"Some of us don't care too much about the Division. Some of us don't care at all," He tilts his head, his brown eyes never leaving hers for even a moment. "It is an arbitrary distinction that holds no weight for me, personally." He gives her a strange smile and something about it strikes her as very sad. Some part of her wonders what he was like at Hogwarts. "I judge people by intellect, by merit, by character,"

While she's standing there gobsmacked, he's turned back to the shelves. The most _logical_ conclusion she can come to is that Black is most definitely possessed. It is far more comfortable to settle for that explanation than to think that he might actually _mean_ something by what he's said. She stares at his back for a good minute, noting how his hair curls at the top of his neck, how his shoulders droop forward as he bends to a lower shelf, how he seems so much like Harry.

Alphard Black. Intensely close friend of Draco Malfoy - the ace bigot and master bully of Hogwarts. Confessing that he is capable of looking beyond the Division. A laughable plot to unnerve her, at best. She's _not_ going to be manipulated. Hogwarts and Durmstrang have _raised_ her. Taught her. She is no fool. She is no fool. As she turns back around, discarding the _Donne_ book because that's the _most cliched_ option -

something cold and quiet settles in her gut - the furious child rearing its raging head, freezing a resolution in her. Pretty boys with pretty pictures. With the ugly surface running deep. She remembers. She knows. Alphard Black can smile at her all he wants - she's not falling for it.

.

.

Hermione doesn't make a show of her suspicions, merely lets them sit in the back of her head, a constant reminder to be vigilant and aware. There's no denying that they have interesting conversations about the texts they want to choose - he suggests Romeo and Juliet ( _"these violent delights have violent ends")_ and she reprimands him for selecting the most _obvious_ thing. He turns down her suggestion of one of Donne's sonnets, despite professing a deep affection for the man's penmanship and she has to remind herself that he is _not_ to be trusted.

They fall into companionable silence and Hermione waits for the inevitable slur, for the impending shove but nothing happens. They decide on poetry, in the end. An excerpt, they agree politely, would be tougher to write about.

Alphard points at a collection of Poems for the Dead and she pulls out a compilation of Yeats' poems that makes him pause. They hover over their selected titles placed on one of the desks- there's Byron and Coleridge, an anthology of contemporary American poetry, a small book of translated Italian poets, there's Dylan Thomas, some Pablo Neruda - a poet that makes them both uncomfortable due to his self-confessed rape of a Sri-Lankan woman, they share a look about that - and some Emily Dickinson on the side.

The two of them finally settle on Donne's _Batter My Heart_ sonnet - one of Hermione's favourites, something they'd both been taught at Hogwarts. It's a faintly erotic, religious and violent piece and their written explanation takes up this intersectionality. She lets Alphard do the writing and stares at the side of his face, wondering if he really did _mean_ what he'd said about the Division. At that moment, Astoria Greengrass passes by them - in pale blue and with an upturned lip, blatantly ignoring Hermione's presence and Alphard looks up just as the blonde flashes a full, almost suggestive smile at him.

When he smiles back at her, Hermione's resolve returns. He did not mean _anything_ by what he had said.

* * *

Tom Riddle walks into Room Number 7 just as the clock strikes half-past eleven.

Snape glances up at him - briefly acknowledging the boy, saying nothing - before looking down at the book he's reading. Tom almost wishes that the professor would chastise him. Almost. Shrugging instead, he makes a beeline for the back of the classroom to his favoured seat by the windows. There's a view of the flower-beds from a particular that reminds him of so many different things that he almost never sits there. He'd always avoided it when he'd had classes here during his undergraduate course.

Today, however, feels different to him - as if the very fibre of his mind was _altered_ by that dream. He sits down in the damned chair, setting down his leather bag on the dask and stretching his legs out in front of him. He can sense Snape's eyes on him - curious, almost _worried?_ \- and Tom thinks maybe he should've taken another set of showers in the morning to dispel the nightmare from his person. It feels like he might be wearing it, even now. That's the only reason Snape would look so much, and for so long.

Ignoring the older man's silent, unspoken question - _what happened?_ \- he looks out of the window and admires the white tulips there, tall amidst the insistence of grass. He doesn't know how long he looks out for, just that the ache right in the centre of his chest begins to ebb away and people start trickling back into the class, in odd pairs, involved in conversation. He tears his gaze from the tulips and leans back in his seat to watch the crowd rush back in.

Those Hogwarts' juniors of his - some Mudbloods, some Purebloods, stream in first with Beauxbaton students. He recognizes some of the faces - if not from school and university, then the parties and one too many smiles are thrown his way. Pansy appears with Cynus, laughing in that alluring way of his and Tom spots Draco in the crowd, pale head all too noticeable. Astoria is right by the door, talking hurriedly to some girl with long, black hair and then he sees Alphard, striding in with that other Hogwarts junior, the Mudblood that Draco had it in for...the one Snape had rebuked yesterday. A face to which Tom cannot put a name.

Griffin? Grover? Something like that, anyway. A Mudblood is of no interest to him.

Astoria and Pansy sit down near him - he hadn't realized they'd made their way over already - talking quietly to each other before the pale-blonde girl turns to look at him, a questioning look in her eye.

"Do you suppose she's pretty, Tom?" She asks finally, chewing on her bottom lip as she jerks her head discreetly in the direction of Alphard.

He lets his gaze flicker to the girl, disinterestedly but she's obscured from view now and he shrugs. Pansy fills in instead, sneering in her fashionably mocking style, "Yes, she's pretty.." Her eyes are razors. "...for a Mudblood."

Tom doesn't have the energy to shrug again, nor fucks left to propel him to say anything so he just looks down and Astoria reaches out to squeeze his shoulder affectionately. He has to fight the urge to flinch - not that because the gesture is unfamiliar or unwanted but because the night is still there, wrestling for his peace of mind, wanting to spill a secret or two, needing to ruin him forever. He can feel it thrumming beneath the surface of himself and he _wishes_ that Bellatrix were here.

 _Fuck._

Cygnus drops him a friendly smile before sitting down behind Tom's seat and _finally -_ Alphard makes his way over to where they're all sitting. Cygnus is talking to Malfoy and Pansy's flicking through her phone, pointing out one or two things to Astoria carelessly.

Just as the dark-haired boy makes to sit beside Tom, Snape rises from his seat to start speaking. His head is throbbing and he feels this nauseous wave of tiredness reach over across him - he fights this by whipping out his phone and turning to his iMessage inbox.

 _Got real real hammered last night, babe so i couldn't make it,_ readsBella's most recent message - sent to him sometime around 10 A.M.

There's a string of ten other messages that she'd sent him last night, through various stages of extreme inebriation and he's just about to scroll up when he gets a notification for a new message. From an unknown number. The meaning is made clear as soon as he taps the message open.

It reads: _A new poison spreads. We require an antidote. This Saturday, at Diagon Alley._

He taps the _Reply_ button and is just about to type out a response when Snape's barking voice calls out his name.

"Mr. Riddle!" The bitterness of his professor's voice does not go unnoticed and Tom sets the phone down on the table in front of him, without any hassle. "Yes, sir?" He prompts casually and he can feel those Juniors staring into the side of his face, trying to make something of him.

Snape purses his lips, the picture of annoyance and disdain. "I'd like you to give us one or two associations that we could be make between sex and death,"

Tom has known Severus Snape well enough to recognize his threats and lucky for them both, this is a course that Tom has had immense interest in for months and months. Tom tilts his head, pausing to think - drawing one idea into another, making sense of his thoughts before speaking, crisply and sharply,

"Sex and death are pivotal life experiences. While sex is something you experience yourself, your death is more often that which the people around you experience," He pauses, shifting his right hand down below the desk so that he can clench his fist, letting his fingernails dig into the palm of his skin - keeping him there, keeping the nightmare at bay. "They can both be regarded as a means of control. Whether we regard sexual practices like BDSM.." Someone guffaws, someone else clears their throat and Tom goes on, quiet and powerful. "..or analyze the violence of sexual assaults, the idea of control is important to both. We may further come to a more cliched conclusion...which is pleasure. Sex as an obvious means of pleasure and the act of murder as a possible way of deriving pleasure,"

He can feel all of their eyes on him - he's used to it, always has been and so, he looks straight at Snape instead. "Should I continue, sir?"

"Is that all of your opinion, Mr. Riddle?"

"For the moment, sir. I would require more reading to give you an adequate response,"

There's a pause. Astoria sniggers softly behind her hand. Cygnus and Pansy share a look. Those Hogwarts juniors are looking at each other questioningly. Tom can imagine the tulips fluttering in the wind, delicate and fragile.

"Thank you, Mr. Riddle. You were insightful,"

He finds himself nodding, almost mechanically - an action that appears only natural on the outside. As Snape's gaze travels to the other side of the classroom, to one of those Mudbloods, Tom whips out his phone and looks at the newest message again.

The response box flickers and Tom works on automatic, his fingers typing the words before he even thinks of them.

 _Diagon, 8PM. All remedies will be brought._

* * *

a/n: i'm working on getting together some kind of a syllabus for their course so that the literature i reference makes more sense, in the context of both tom's and hermione's stories. it's essential for what i have in mind also. some exciting things are coming up. what do you think of a possible club scene, where hermione sees something curiously erotic? give me your thoughts ! :::::: as a reply to the two guest reviewers who expressed discomfort about my portrayal of hermione, i'd like to just say that hermione is obviously not ugly. in fact, she's beautiful. however, as a 'mudblood', purebloods will often describe her as ugly or mousy or unattractive in order to put her down. this is the PUREBLOODS' perception, not actual fact. it's all about perception. just as tom riddle appears to her as some kind of divinely handsome man, please remember this is just HER perception. they're both immensely good-looking, at the end of the day. another point i'd want to make is that often when we're attracted to people, we think that they're "too goodlooking" for us or that we're somehow "unattractive" in comparison - it's insecurity at play and this will be there in the eventual tom-hermione relationship. hope this is clear :::::::: thank you to everyone who is reading this so far ! i'm looking forward to writing more! leave your thoughts with me, reviews are food, yum! :::::


	3. vignettes, 7th june

**Title:** the heart plunges lower than night

 **Summary:** "If your idea of seduction is trying to shag me with your mousy little eyes, Granger, then let me assure you that you are not going to get laid." A minor summer course in Literature turns out to be a lot more than Hermione expected. And it's all Tom Riddle's fault. (AU)

 **Pairing** : Tom Riddle x Hermione Granger, Tom Riddle x Others, Hermione Granger x Others

 **Rating/Warning (s)** : (M) Explicit language, dark themes, sexual content

 **Disclaimer** : There is no Magic in this story - it is set in the present time. Canonically, there is at least a generational gap between Riddle's set and Hermione's set but in my story, there is only a three-year gap between them i.e. Hermione is twenty years old and Riddle is twenty-three years old. Hogwarts is an elite prep academy under Headmaster Dumbledore and Durmstrang Institute is a higher level university run by a Trust. The terms 'mudblood' and 'pureblood' indicate economic differences, with 'mudbloods' being students from poor, lower-class backgrounds. There is large-scale discrimination and prejudice based on these lines of division. Everything else shall be revealed as the story moves forward.

 **Note:** The story title is a line taken from the first verse of a William Carlos Williams' poem called _These_ , published in _Death The Barber._

* * *

7th june, thursday, _undisclosed hour of the day_

(vignettes)

..

.

* * *

The first she'd been called a _Mudblood_ was when she had barely been ten years old.

She'd been alone, making her way into the Great Hall for dinner when two very tall and very intimidating girls had shoved past her, hissing the word in such a _violent_ manner that Hermione had felt it like a physical blow across the face. She hadn't known its meaning or its history, only that it sounded very much like a very, very _bad_ word. It had left an awful taste in her mouth and it had taken all her strength to continue her way into the Hall when what she really wanted was to run right back to their dorm rooms.

She'd taken her usual seat between Ron and Harry and the question had fallen right out of her mouth before she could think twice,

"What does Mudblood mean?"

The twins had looked up first- head snapping in such an abrupt manner that it had made her flinch and the entire table of Gryffindors - loud, raucous and uncaring Gryffindors had fallen silent, gazes shifting, people turning. She'd been the centre of all that scrutiny but nothing in her demeanour gave any of her fear away. Her spine had been ramrod straight, her mouth so pleasantly curled that it was almost odd and she'd been confident enough back then to look around the table as if to assure everybody that she would _not_ take the question back.

Harry sat frozen beside her, clutching a butter knife as if wielding a weapon and Ron had turned to look at his older brothers with those wide, wonderful eyes as if searching for the same answer. There had been some muttering, especially among the Sixth and Seventh Years - brows furrowed, mouths curled and Hermione had seen someone's face so caught in fury that it _scared_ her all over.

So much _power_ in a _single_ word.

She remembered George Weasley's exact expression when he spoke to her - fierce and protective, like the older brother he had become ever since she first visited the Burrow.

"Did someone say that to you, 'Mione?"

Fred's eyes had been flint and he'd turned in his seat to look right at her, leaning forward on the table in an oddly threatening manner- she'd known even then that the threat was not to her but to whomever they thought was harassing her. Hermione had felt that flash of intense discomfort again - felt the force of the word as those girls had said it to her and she'd shown nothing to the Gryffindors, shrugging as if to shrug the memory of it off. Someone had laughed and the tension had dissipated when Ron dropped some mashed potatoes on his trousers. Harry had been awfully quiet, like an icy pool of disappearance but then, he did that often. He left them, even as he sat right beside them and Hermione had not questioned it.

George had asked her again after dinner, when they were all walking back towards the dormitories - when _nobody_ jumped out at her and _said_ ugly things.

"Is someone bothering you, Hermione?"

She'd been on the edge of something - a cliff, a kind of bridge and her answer would have sealed her fate, would have fixed something that day, all those years ago. She could have been upfront, could have admitted that two Slytherin girls had laid the word out before her like a sick curse, could have widened the ever-growing rift between the two Houses, could have allowed them to see her weakness even as she did not seem to know it. But she had not. She'd reached forward and pressed a soft hand to George's arm, shaking her head. Smiling brightly, her face like a bloody lamp, illuminating the hallway.

The relief in George's gaze that night - like some kind of shadow lifting the darkness from his eyes - lingers with her to this day.

Reminds her of Fred Weasley. Found dead in a ditch near Camden Town with his throat slit open. In his last hours, at the impossible age of twenty, _defending_ people like _her._ Rallying support for the _Mudbloods_ in the area in the wake of recent murders. His killer walking free, out there somewhere, unapprehended by the authorities who could care less for a "respectable pureblood" gone astray. Reminds her that she should have said something that night - should have pointed out exactly _who_ had said that to her, should have sought the balm when it had been right in front of her.

She had made a choice, however and the wound only _grew._

The slurs became common- littering passing comments thrown her way whenever she was alone. Short hisses under people's breath when they saw her. Haunting their eyes as they looked at her. Echoing in the library, catching her _always_ when she was _alone._ Each time, the sheer _violence_ of it dimmed and as she stumbled across its meaning in a conversation with Harry late into one night, it did not feel like _suffering._ No, it had felt like _fate._

So when it came out of Draco Malfoy's snobbish little mouth in Fourth Year, she had been surprised by how much it _stung._

It's why she'd hit him. A full punch to the face, after having pulled her arm back. With the precise violence that had been inflicted upon her over the years of verbal abuse. She remembers the satisfying crack his head had made against the rock, his body jerking away from hers and his two goons, those insufferable bastards had looked on in absolute horror. A part of her had been terrified and it had looked down at her from someplace far away with such disgust that she had _almost_ regretted it. Harry's reaction had _almost_ made her regret it even more - there was something he had understood about power back then that she had not. Ron had laughed for a good ten minutes and given her a high-laugh, saying all the right words.

 _Malfoy's a fucking tosser. He had it coming. I'm so proud, 'Mione. I'd never pegged you for a violent sort of girl but Merlin, I'm impressed._

That had been the real beginning. The physical fights came out of nowhere - smack in the middle of Fifth Year when she'd been lulled into a kind of false security because _nobody_ had _said_ anything to her. No brushing past in the corridors. No scrawling notes left in her locker. No snide remarks made in classes. She should have known better but she'd fallen into this obtuse dream that it _was finally over,_ that a _word_ would _no longer_ command _power_ over her, that she could finally _make_ something of herself.

Hestia Carrow had cornered her in a bathroom full of silver mirrors and blue tiles. She remembered thinking how beautiful the tile looked in the light before the Carrow girl had rammed her into the wall, long fingers threaded into Hermione's bushy hair. _Mudblood_ , she'd hissed into Hermione's ear and left, the door slamming after her. Blood had trickled down the side of her face and _the choice_ had unfolded before her once again. As it would continue to, many times over the next two years.

She remembers all the brawls in distinct, chilling clarity. The late night run-in with Pansy Parkinson that had left her with bruises the size of coins on the side of her waist. The humiliating punch that Goyle had managed to land on her face, at the direction of stupid fucking Malfoy. She'd made good use of Ginny's concealer then. Following the Yule Ball, her altercation with the Greengrass sisters that had left her beautiful, coral dress in tatters with tears so thick she hadn't been able to blink properly for minutes on end.

And that final horror in her seventh year, a perfect epilogue to her constant lies and covering-up of things. Walking right into a trap Draco Malfoy had laid for her. The two of them, alone, at the Astronomy Tower. That was the first time Hermione had _feared_ for her own life.

Nothing _happened._ He hadn't so much as lifted a _finger_ in her direction but she had felt it. A clammy fist around her heart, that awareness that something in Malfoy was no longer quite _right_ and she could therefore be certain of _nothing._ She'd seen it in his eyes - something baffling and frenzied and she'd stepped back towards the railing of the balcony. Wind howled at them, around them and the moon hung limp and dull in the sky, two witnesses without voice. He'd just opened his mouth - forming that _favourite_ word of his when Professor McGonagall had appeared, an oddity if there ever was one.

Harry had been livid and Ron - well, Ron had had murder in his eyes. She had been disturbed by their anger - _women_ requiring _male_ protection was an idea _as_ abhorrent as Draco Malfoy himself but she'd realized something later when Ginny had tucked her into bed in an awkwardly maternal manner. Their anger hadn't really been tied down to some kind of patriarchal notion of protecting women - it was an anger she'd found in Ginny too. Ginny, with her pale hands, trembling with a hardening rage in the short set of her mouth, something that Hermione would continue to see over the years as they grew up.

The seventh year episode had more terrifying than times of physical damage, than instances of cruel verbal assault because there had been a kind of silent promise on top of that Astronomy Tower, the sheer _violence_ that came from _not_ having _any_ inflicted upon her, but only _suggested_ by Malfoy. She had stayed in her room for a week, unable to see _how_ she could get to class in any dignified manner when just the idea of _stumbling across_ Malfoy made her head hurt. How could that be explained to any of her professors? How could such fear translate into sense?

Ron had been her most dedicated visitor, bringing her not only the occasional Chocolate-Frog but also various notes he'd filched off Ginny and Luna, thick sets of newspapers and soft, understanding conversation that steered clear of the Astronomy Tower. It was strange to her then that the boy who had often made _fun_ of how _much_ work she was doing all the time was now the boy who _refused_ to let her sit idle, who fed her curiosity for hours with odd bits of information, who brought her paper after paper to keep her _very much_ in the real world.

Harry visited sparingly - caught between a thousand other things and it was on one of his very few visits that he'd mentioned _Malfoy._ Hermione had known that if any of them would bring it up, it would be Harry. That was just the nature of their relationship - no hiding behind things, no obscuring or withholding, a saying of what was as it _was._

He'd said exactly this: _'Mione, you can leave your room now. He's not here anymore._ For a short, almost blindingly horrible moment, she'd thought Malfoy was _dead._ Her misunderstanding was rectified moments later, Harry's green eyes alight with the knowledge of _what_ she'd been thinking. He'd even smiled (but the guilt was like a battering ram, taking straight to her stomach, making her feel sick) : _He's disappeared from school. Nobody knows what happened._

She'd slept with that awful guilt in her gut for days, even as she returned to class and went through the motions of social interaction, homework and exam reading. She'd stooped to _his_ level. She really was no _better._ Just as she was gaining some semblance of normalcy, newspapers carrying _horrors_ had arrived, right before the exams. She remembers the Headline almost as well as she remembers the _feeling_ it gave rise to within her.

 _ **UNNAMED GROUP HUNTS MUGGLES, KILLS TWELVE.**_

Harry had been a statue at breakfast and Ron's face was almost translucent. Ginny's hand had found Hermione's as they sat side by side, eyes glued to the _terrifying_ picture before them. The Great Hall had felt oppressive then, like a deliberate means by which they had _all_ been _cut off_ from the real world. From the _actual horror._ None of the Professors were at the Staff Table out at the front. Not even the Headmaster. Tables and tables of students sat in stunned silence - the Division had been a distant reality for them. At most, it had been a trading of verbal barbs or a scuffle in the toilets or simply the refusal of _certain_ professors to award _certain_ students the kind of grades they'd deserved. That newspaper headline changed _everything._ It indicated something - something that went _beyond_ the power of _one word._ It implied a darkness, a cruelty that would physically manifest itself in the destruction, degradation and discarding of _life._

Hermione's heart sat in her throat, a suffocating knot. Even the Slytherins had been silent.

The memory of it all plays out in her head in a series of unrelated images, without any of the linearity or structure that one can only _imagine_ and then attempt to _impose_ on the mind. Hermione Granger might be one of the most intelligent persons of her age but even _her mind_ must yield to the fractures of _time_ , the sheer _otherness_ by which her life comes back to her, like a dream-sequence in an absurd film.

She's on Tom Riddle's Facebook page again but it's not him that she's looking at. There's another picture from the beach she hadn't seen in her previous bout of searching and her gaze is settled on Alphard Black's lean frame. Wearing just a pair of swimming trunks - black and plain, unimaginative therefore by all standards - he's every inch the athletic, photogenic archetype male. There's a smile at his mouth, like a kind of shadow and the sea stretches out behind him, an undisturbed blue. There's nobody else in the picture - she wonders why Riddle might have posted this. Comments have disabled on it too - she can only see the number of Likes and Reactions.

Could he have meant what he had said to her about the Division? Him, a _pureblood_ , openly telling her that the Division didn't _matter_ to him? Either he was impressively manipulating her or he was _trusting_ her because an admission like that could get him into _real_ fucking trouble with the Pureblood Hardliners and there were quite a few in Durmstrang. That headline hadn't been a stand-alone, she remembers - there had been a series of attacks, a spate of hatred that one registered along with the body count. _Why_ would he say that to her? _What_ did he _want_ from _her_?

She clicks on the 'Next' arrow, still surprised that Riddle has a public profile that allows her to do all of this. A photograph of the said boy appears - it's a black and white portrait of him between light and dark, shadows spilling across half his face and abstaining from the other half. There's a dentend vulnerability in the picture that makes her immensely uncomfortable. He's the well-known myth of Hogwarts, sure but he's also the unspoken leader of _all those_ Purebloods and she's not sure if she can make out any pretense here, if she can gauge the mask from the man. She wonders who took this picture, why he posted it online, whether it's all an elaborate scheme to fit the _stories._

Before she can keep clicking forward, her doorbell rings.

It's past midnight. _Who_ would be at _her_ flat at _this_ hour? Irrational fear sets in just as she moves the laptop off of her lap to put it down on the sofa. _Fuck._ She gets to her feet steadily and makes her way to the bookcase to her left, right near the door. The bell goes off again and Hermione has to bite her lip to keep herself from cursing fruitlessly. All of her lights are on so she can't pretend to _not_ be home. Stealthily, she stops by the bookcase and picks up the hockey stick Ginny gave to her the moment she'd moved into the flat alone.

Feeling _and looking_ ridiculous, no doubt, she stops at the door and _wishes_ that the blasted fucking thing had _had_ a keyhole. She probably wouldn't have been this paranoid if she hadn't been thinking about those attacks. She feels like a cornered child, _having_ to do something she _really_ doesn't want to. Taking a calm, steadying breath that doesn't do all that much for her, she unlocks the door and much like ripping off the band-aid, yanks the blasted thing open.

"Harry?!"

* * *

"You seem _very_ interested in that Mudblood that Draco doesn't like,"

"You noticed,"

"I notice everything, Black,"

" _Right,_ "

"Do you plan to fuck her?"

"..." A beat of silence. There's a smirk on one face and a grimace on the other. Cigarette smoke obscures everything, night like a cold blanket, minutes tickling without hurry.

"So what if I am?" A defensive edge to the voice. "Are you jealous, Riddle?"

"I thought you didn't devalue women, Black," A darker smirk, something wild in the eye.

Frustrated sigh, followed by a muttered _fuck off._

Tom continues, cigarette between fingers, "I ask only because I don't want you to be jeopardized," A tone of concern. Real or not?

"Fuck off, Tom," Alphard snaps irritably, surging to his feet and stalking over to the large, ceiling-to-floor windows that overlook all of the city in its majestic, ghostly spread. "You only care about the Assignment,"

Some shuffling behind him and then Riddle is right behind him- real, warm physical presence, a body at a distance but _so close_ and when he speaks, Alphard struggles to keep his cool.

"You know that isn't true, Black," Tom's breath brushing against the back of Alphard's neck. Smoke curling between them, only centimetres apart now. On the edge of it. The brink.

"You may be able to manipulate everybody-" Alphard spins around with his awful, enviable grace, his beautiful face caught in a sneer all too similar to Malfoy's. "-but you can't manipulate me, _Tom_ ,"

The acidic rendition of his name is not lost to him but Tom only steps forward, such that their bodies are now brushing against each other's, their faces mere inches apart. Nothing unfamiliar for the two of them - a long history to it even - and Alphard's eyes are prettier in the dark than Tom would like to admit. There's a halting sense of something between them - electricity and fear, toxic mix. "Can't I?" Tom murmurs softly, letting his fingers trail up Alphard's arm only to stop at his throat.

Fingertips at his pulse, the _intent_ of both _harm_ and _pleasure_ unmistakable. Cigarettes forgotten, eyes only for each other - a broken record on replay. Alphard's pulse jumping at movement, fingertips cold against his warm skin. Fear in every breath, disguising the _want._ No leaning in, no giving into - the distance held, even if it's only an illusion. Tom's tragedy of a face - angular, intimidating and _devastating_ , no question, no answer. Only a picture. This picture. Moments spilling between them, promise after promise, _horrors_ shared over the years.

Just as Tom moves, dipping his head as if to make for Alphard's throat with his mouth - hunter with prey - Alphard jerks away, shoving past Tom's solid, _warm_ body with a force that scares him. His heart is hammering and his head spins - from want and fear and everything that threatens him from the inside. It's hard to remain steady on his legs but he turns deliberately, his face a storm.

"Don't toy with me, Tom," There's no acid to this, only a bitter warning.

Tom's still facing the windows - the nightscape suddenly neither beautiful nor enamouring, only some kind of cardboard picture without value. He can't tell what he's feeling - there's some kind of anger, an unreasonable sort of sentiment that makes it hard for him to even swallow. He can feel Black's eyes drilling into his back, _demanding_ a response, _expecting_ it. The fire of it is discomforting - _this_ is what comes from _familiarity_ , from _knowledge_ , from _caring._ Tom chooses not to turn around, bringing his stub of a cigarette to his mouth to take a final, silencing drag. Expelling smoke with a soft breath. A ghost again. Nothing at all.

Alphard mutters another _fuck you_ but Tom can't bring himself to feel anything. He shuts his eyes, sick of looking beyond the window, of seeking something he can't put a name to - Alphard's footsteps recede into silence eventually and Tom drops the cigarette, crushing it beneath his shoe.

He wills himself to _feel_ something - anything that isn't _this_ but there is only silence inside him, no sign of shift or sorrow, no sense of guilt or betrayal. Just a shocking quiet. He steps by the table and throws himself into the couch, shutting his eyes to recentre his concentration. The meeting is this Saturday - that's barely a day away now. What can he do till then? What is productive for the cause?

Quite randomly or suddenly, he remembers the question that Astoria had asked him two days in class. _Do you suppose she's pretty, Tom?_ About that Mudblood girl. All of them seemed to be obsessed with her - in varying degrees, right from Alphard's unusual interest to Pansy's abject disdain of the girl, from Draco's unbalanced hatred for her to Astoria's dislike of her. Bella's the only one who can't bother to give a fuck - mostly because she has hardly attended classes and has been rather out of sync with the rest of the group. He'll have to check in with her soon - they all need to be there for Saturday, after all.

What is it about that girl? There _must_ be something to her for Malfoy to have held a grudge for _so_ long. Tom makes a quiet, mental note to take Malfoy out for a drink tomorrow and get something useful from him. Refusing to spend even a moment of his time thinking about what had just happened with Alphard - he _would_ deal with it _later_ \- he reaches for his laptop and pushes it open. His search for information has to _start_ somewhere. Even if it's somewhere small and juvenile.

As his Mac turns on, he whips out his phone and types out a message to Parkinson - the only one out of the lot who would text him back swiftly at this hour, besides Alphard of course. His message is sent and delivered in a few quick seconds. Anything to keep himself up all night, really - anything to keep the nightmares at bay. He won't risk anything at all tonight, especially with Black staying over. The very _last_ thing he needs is for anybody but Bella to know what's _happening_ to him. Clamping down on his thoughts before they scuttle off towards the fucking Orphanage - a demon left undefeated - Tom leans back into the sofa and waits for a reply.

Still, untroubled waters. He is the surface only. A solidity unlike any other. Quiet and without movement. Untroubled, of course. He has everything he needs, he has everything he had ever _wanted._ Unwittingly, his eyes betray him and trail down to his forearm, to the tattoo there. There isn't a lot of light in the room - only a lamp somewhere far behind him that casts more shadows than anything else but he can make out it's outline. Dark against his pale skin. Permanent. Sealing his fate. Something to be proud of.

His phone buzzes, lighting up briefly and he taps the message to open it. A smirk comes unbidden to his face - now he has a name. A starting point. A means of satisfying his curiosity. A way of making sure _nobody_ is compromised. He opens the web browser on his laptop and types _hermione jean granger_ into the search bar. Presses Enter. Smirks again.

* * *

The two of them are splayed over the sofa, years and years of comfort between them. She's given Harry an old, loose t-shirt she'd found in her cupboard because she _refused_ to let him sit around in his _work_ clothes. Coffee is steaming in two white cups on the table beside them - recently made - and he's turned on his favourite lamp, the blue one by the window, before throwing himself on the sofa by her. Light is mellow and aquatic around them, bathing them in an odd kind of nostalgia for their shared childhood. It feels almost like they're swimming.

Harry has looked better, what with his dark circles and the suspiciously slimmer bent of his shoulders making for a very tired and haggard look. It's been almost an hour since he turned up at the flat, unannounced and staggering and Hermione is almost proud of how much _calmer_ and _at ease_ he looks _now_ , after sparse conversation and long silences. She's always shared silence with Harry, like some kind of ritual - a confirmation of their familiarity with each other.

She shifts back into the couch, shifting her legs so that they don't get in Harry's way. A part of her is grateful that his feet don't _stink_ because they're right by her stomach. "Will you now please tell me what's going on, Harry?"

It sounds sadder than it is meant to and it makes him sit up a little, his eyes infinitely alert behind those round glasses of his. He doesn't look like the boy from Hogwarts anymore - she berates herself mentally for wanting him to.

There's a grimness to him now - something that none of her hugs or her gift packages are going to get rid of. Something that even Ginny hasn't been able to understand and hell, they've been _dating_ almost four years now.

He chews on his bottom lip for a moment, looking frighteningly young. "It's just this case we're working on,"

She also sits up a little because it's _hard_ to have a _serious_ conversation when half your body is sinking into the couch. "Tell me about it?" She flinches internally at _how_ tentative that sounds.

Harry's face is unreadable and he looks away towards her kitchenette with a seriousness she's only ever associated with the oldest Weasley brother, Charlie. It makes sense that the two of them should have similar mannerisms- they work together, after all. It's just disconcerting. He shifts again, silence stretching between them and picks up a cup of coffee. Brings it to his mouth, blows over the black steaming liquid, takes a sip. "You know I can't talk to you about cases, right?"

She senses his disagreement with his own statement and pushes her luck. "Harry," She leans forward, putting a hand on his arm in a manner that is all too familiar to the both of them. "Hey, listen," His face jerks, eyes meeting hers. "You know you can tell me _anything_ without worrying about….discretion and conflict of interest. You can trust me, Harry, like you always have,"

There's something in his eyes that makes her think that he _might_ just relent. That he'll give into this request after months of badgering and _finally_ reveal what it is that is eating away at him. Because he looks strained - even in this garb of comfort and home, he looks like he's not really here. He looks -

"I didn't mean to barge in tonight," He says finally and the window shuts, the door locks, the house off-limits to her.

She quashes the uneasy bitterness that swells inside her, swallowing thickly and looking away. "I'm only worried about you," Her stomach knots. "We all are,"

There's a small chuckle from him - a mirthless sort of sound. "I know and I _would_ tell you in a heartbeat, 'Mione," He sucks in a shaky breath and she sees him running a hand through his messy hair. "But I _can't._ "

She takes this in stride, picking up her own cup of coffee from the table and taking a long sip. A shiver runs through her entire body - the liquid warming her throat, rushing that _odd_ energy into all parts of her, relaxing her. Without looking up, she asks the doomed question in a small voice, "How has Ron been?"

If she looks up, she might see _pity_ and she _cannot_ stand being pitied. Better to look down at her lap, at her cup of coffee, at anything _but_ Harry.

He clears his throat and stretches his legs out again and she can tell that he's making the purposeful, deliberate effort to keep everything casual so that she doesn't cry. He _knows_ her. "Are you sure you want to-"

"Has he sworn you to secrecy too?" She snaps before she can stop herself and his legs tense beside hers.

"'Mione," He says softly - finally and then his hand has reached forward to settle on hers. "He's pretty good. It looks light he might get selected into the team he wanted, _finally._ He's also moving out of the Burrow,"

She ignores how hot the inside of her chest feels - how claustrophobic and tight. "Oh,"

Harry hears the sorrow before she does and he's pulled her into a hug before she can say anything at all. His arms come up around her - like all the other times before - and he smells so much like all the old things they loved that she starts crying. Toothpaste. Firewood. Faint sweat. He holds her patiently, saying nothing because they share silence like they share their childhood, without fuss or pretense, without any fanfare. It feels alright, just for that moment - she doesn't need to pull on steely reserve or give a fuck about the Division, doesn't have to worry what might be said or who might be watching, whether this is weakness or strength, nothing. She sobs into his shoulder and he holds her, he holds her because he can, because he will and because _this_ is what it means to love someone really.

* * *

Tom Riddle spends nearly an hour and a half looking for _something._

There is _no_ trace of her on the internet. No Facebook, no Instagram, no Twitter. There's not even a LinkedIn, the usual go-to for someone like _her._ But then _who_ is someone like her? What does he even know, beyond 'mudblood' and 'hermione jean granger'? That is the frustrating part, the centre of it all - his lack of knowledge which irks him, unsettles him and is sure enough going to enrage him. He has never _not_ known anything. The value of _knowing_ is immense- it is the power by which he lives and abides. _Well, fuck it._ He has a lot more to worry about than some silly Muggle girl.

He's irritated that he can't even remember her from school. Hogwarts. That old grave of memories. Alphard and Bella and those Carrows. His remembrance of Hogwarts is in battered, blurring fragments. Not all of it makes sense. Not many names comes back to him. His intent to bury those things, those skeletons has done him as good as it has done him harm, he thinks. He shuts the laptop a little too furiously and lights a cigarette. Doesn't know all too much what he wants to do now. Gets to his feet and walks around the couch, enters the corridor that leads towards the extra room. Without thinking of it.

Sometimes Tom feels like the Ancient Mariner. With an albatross around his neck. He doesn't always think of himself as a fictional character or a literary figure - he's always _scorned_ those plebeian aspirations but he finds himself thinking of the Mariner rather absurdly tonight. He can't recall where he first read it - only that it had cemented itself firmly in his mind, images of salt and sea, the water everywhere ' _but not a drop to drink',_ the Mariner a solitary figure amongst company, the corpses, the parched throats, the echo of it. The loneliness of it, perhaps, had stuck with him through the years. He had always been an impressionable child after all.

Now he thinks of the illusion of the poem - that sense of guilt and heaviness, that distraught failure, the suggestion of horror. Sentiments he can identify and put to the images of his own life. Smoke clouds in around him just as he stops at the door to the room where Alphard's staying. It's open and he can make out the faint outline of Black in the bed, fast asleep, _dead_ to the world. There's no movement, no hurry - only a calm peace in the room and Tom wonders what that might be like, to have that kind of rest at night, to not be ensnared by the mind. He blows smoke into the room, unable to move, unable to do much at all.

For a moment - just the briefest of all moments - he is tempted to go in, to lie down beside Alphard and sleep. He knows what it means to seek a body, to want its warmth, to need its company so much that to do without is to not do at all. It is weakness. He cannot be powerful if he is running from one bed to another, wanting to be _held_ , wanting to be _healed._ His mind sits like a ticking bomb inside him - nobody's touch can reach that, nothing can _fix_ that. Even if he submits to the urge tonight, even if he climbs into bed with Alphard only to _sleep_ with someone's arms around him, _they_ will come for him tomorrow.

And Alphard will not be there. No one will.

He spins around and strides out of the corridor into the living room again. Walking across the dimly lit space, he makes his way to his own bedroom. There'll be a bottle of something in there and some more cigarettes - substances strong enough to keep him up till morning. There's only a couple of hours to go and he almost wishes he _didn't_ need _something_ to keep him _awake._ If he could stay _awake_ by the sheer force of his will. The unfairness of it makes him grit his teeth and he yanks open his bedroom door, frustrated beyond measure.

The room is dark and smells like pine - courtesy of Bella's gift. The smell has a calming effect on him and he takes a final drag of his cigarette, forcing himself to sit down on the edge of the bed so that he doesn't give in and find himself in Alphard's room. That kind of stupidity is something he'd left in the past. He _cannot_ afford to do that now. He knows that the cigarettes in the study table's top right-hand drawer and the whiskey's in there too but his body is frozen, his legs unable to move.

The cigarette stub falls from his fingers in some fantastically slow manner and he feels that tug of sleep - that heady blanking out, the _pull_ of it so strong that it is almost a physical force acting upon him. Every part of him is fighting now, struggling - rallying against the biology of his body, the clock that ticks inside him, another time altogether and he _hates_ that he is _tired,_ that _he_ is _weak._ The darkness swims into his vision and he's out before he can say _no_ , before his body can fight back.

Then he dreams.

He ends up in the Orphanage again. No muddy shoes this time, no long squeaky clean corridor. No voices, nothing. He's in a small room, lit only by a small lamp in the far right corner. He's sitting on a chair and when he tries to move, he _can't._ There are no ropes on him, no strings, no cuffs but he can't move. The fear climbs up his spine, thick at the back of his neck, knotting anxiously in his throat and then - someone appears before him.

He wants to look up to see who, he wants to _identify_ this person but his head is bowed, his eyes fixed to his own two hands. The figure moves, formless, without scent or sound, closer and closer to him. An arm is thrust before his eyes, an impossible high-pitched scream spilling around him. Blurry only for a moment. It takes him a few seconds to understand that something has been _scratched_ \- no, _carved_ into the arm. The wound is raw, bloody, the skin graphically cut. The scream continues and then he hears _that_ voice from somewhere behind him. Cracking like a whip. Instructing. Forcing.

"Look,"

So he does. And the arm reads in scars: _mudblood._

* * *

 _a/n:_ hello again, it's taken me a while this time to get my footing right. i rushed excessively with the previous draft and i wasn't satisfied with it at all. so here is an amendment that i am far more content with because it's building my characters and setting the eventual stage for when they should meet and interact, finally. i am IMMENSELY overwhelmed by the reviewer-response and insight this 'story' has received so far, you are all TOO kind and generous and WONDERFULLY intelligent for offering me your encouragement and your ideas. i'm ABSOLUTELY fahkin floored. drop a review if you've got something to say/ask/share. hope you're all staying hydrated and healthy, much love to you.

in response to specific reviewers: 

1\. G : i'm sorry for deleting chapter 3 - specifically the version you read. i was very excited about that idea but feel like it didn't have enough build-up so that chapter is long gone. hope you stick around to see where i go, however.

2\. MsAriKari: the class prejudice is going to discomforting, yes. i think it might be an interesting exercise, to examine how we are as people and what we think about others, especially the idea of stereotypes and prejudice and how desire/love works in absolutely abysmal ways - how wanting someone who is at complete odds with what your morality/ethics are is a weirdly interesting thing in itself.

3\. marcelyn167: can i just say that i am absolutely floored - DEMOLISHED by your long, wonderful, detailed, caring review? i'm 'shook' by how much you've written and with how much insight you've offered an opinion. let me begin by saying a MASSIVE THANK YOU for that gem, i woke up to this review and just felt like i could do anything ! i'm surprised to be recommended on a tumblr - wow! hermione's self-esteem is a bit complex because on one hand, she knows she could do anything but on the other hand, the repeated history of prejudice and physical violence has made her question everything about herself so ! there's going to be a lot of attraction between a lot of people, haha - hormones, my friend! you may be right! you'll be finding out about Diagon Alley meeting and tattoos soon enough, can't reveal everything just yet. thank you for bringing up the point about Tom's upbringing - things that happen to us in our childhood affect us for the rest of our lives, cliched as that might be but it's going to be very central to Tom's character. as for your Twilight forays, hahahahahha, those descriptions are so funny. It was such a terrible book. however, why i did want to explain my characterization of the two physically was to point out how in REAL LIFE we tend to think of crushes/people we're interested in as SO GOOD LOOKING and WAY OUT OF OUR LEAGUE - so hermione isn't ugly at all but simply insecure. your point about tom's description in the books is happily welcome! thank you so much, i hope you continue enjoying this story.

4\. Auntleona0: what a perfectly worded review and that smooth little compliment at the end about teaching better than Snape! a girl is made happy by these things! i can only hope to work to meet these wonderful, high expectations you have of this story - i would hate to disappoint, really. i've been so enamoured by this pairing, i want to do right by them. thank you for suggesting anais nin! i'm slotting her right in. thank you for your review, let's see where this goes - killing or not.


	4. impressions, 8th june

**Title:** the heart plunges lower than night

 **Summary:** "If your idea of seduction is trying to shag me with your mousy little eyes, Granger, then let me assure you that you are not going to get laid." A minor summer course in Literature turns out to be a lot more than Hermione expected. And it's all Tom Riddle's fault. (AU)

 **Pairing** : Tom Riddle x Hermione Granger, Tom Riddle x Others, Hermione Granger x Others

 **Rating/Warning (s)** : (M) Explicit language, dark themes, sexual content

 **Disclaimer** : There is no Magic in this story - it is set in the present time. Canonically, there is at least a generational gap between Riddle's set and Hermione's set but in my story, there is only a three-year gap between them i.e. Hermione is twenty years old and Riddle is twenty-three years old. Hogwarts is an elite prep academy under Headmaster Dumbledore and Durmstrang Institute is a higher level university run by a Trust. The terms 'mudblood' and 'pureblood' indicate economic differences, with 'mudbloods' being students from poor, lower-class backgrounds. There is large-scale discrimination and prejudice based on these lines of division. Everything else shall be revealed as the story moves forward.

 **Note:** The story title is a line taken from the first verse of a William Carlos Williams' poem called _These_ , published in _Death The Barber._.

* * *

 **.**

 **three** : 8th june, friday: impressions

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.

* * *

She's never been up this early before.

Some part of her wants to blame Harry's notoriously diligent morning routine — the blasted 5:00AM alarm that produces the twenty-rep pushup stint which is followed by an abnormally swift preparation of breakfast. Another part of her knows that she's grateful to have been woken up like this, what with the freshly made coffee and incredibly sumptuous eggs and Harry's boyish grin for good measure, all shades of well-meaning appeasement. To be able to experience that sense of achingly _familiar_ comfort that had so often sustained her all through summers spent at the Burrow is a nostalgic luxury she won't pass over, even if it's coming to her in the premature hours of the day.

It's half past when she finally sits down at the table in her kitchenette. The last half-hour she's spent lazing in bed, caught between sleep and waking, listening to Harry's clunky movements in her flat. Fumbling with a number of drawers, clumsily crashing into the metal bin in the loo, humming tunelessly in the shower, whisking eggs expertly in the kitchenette. This litany of sounds had been so hazy, so distant that when she'd sat up and thrown the covers off, all of it had appeared to have been a dream. The familiarity of it all hadn't helped either — her entire adolescence had swum up before her eyes, ghostly and faint: pleasant summer days spent complaining about Harry's _stupid_ alarm and Ron's _exasperatingly_ loud snoring, long hours pouring over _precious_ books with Charlie and chatting up a _veritable_ storm with Ginny.

"'Mione?" Harry's questioning voice cuts in to her reverie, yanking her back to the present rather absurdly.

She shifts in the chair to regard him — already showered and dressed, all but pristeen in his blue button-down shirt, leaning against the countertop with one of her old mugs in his right hand. She's never really paid too much mind to it but he looks startlingly _professional._ Like a _proper_ adult. It seems inane to think of it like that, but it's the only conclusion she seems to draw, the silliness of it probably a direct result of how early she's been woken up.

"I can't believe you woke me up," The accusation is more affection than anything else and it makes Harry scoff in that customary manner of his.

"Unlike some people..." He gives her a meaningful look, taking a large sip — no, a goddamn _chug_ — of his coffee. It makes her stomach turn because honestly _how_ could anybody be drinking _all_ of that _this_ early in the day? "...some of us have to hold down a real job to pay our bills,"

He must catch the obvious disgust in the curl of her lip (they've known each other too long and too well for there to be misrecognition) because he bursts out laughing and she has little option but to join in — his amusement is all but infectious and it's _ridiculous_ that they should be up and about at 5:30AM, _laughing_ like nothing's changed, like they're still teenagers wiping out summer after summer at the Weasleys. The derisory moment registers faintly somewhere in her mind — she's still sleepy, after all — and before she can make some kind of smart comeback, his phone goes off.

Laughter's wiped off, eyebrows furrow and his jaw tightens when Harry regards the screen. It's like having a shutter go down on a brightly lit shop— that's how quick the cloud arrives, all but darkening his face. Faintly again, she realizes how much of the past is lost to them both even as they attempt to relive it.

He mouths a 'I'm sorry' in her direction, gripping his phone a little too tightly and steps out into the hall area, noticeably out of earshot. Hermione can only hear unclear muttering now and she takes a deep breath, willing herself to stay put in the chair. She's always been curious — it's why she's been the kind of student that she has been and she's worried too, for Harry and what this covert, incredibly secretive job is doing to him but she stays in that chair. Out of respect. Out of love. She'd already made the mistake of pushing people too much (look at Ron, look at Ron, look at Ron, look at what she did) but she's _not_ going to fuck it up again.

She glances at the eggs in the saucepan — powdery white-yellow — and the dark coffee in the French press, noticing that Harry's even had the time to cut up some of her decaying fruits. She counts banana, apple, grapes and watermelon _. What?_ There had been _watermelon_ in _her_ flat? Exactly how spacey had she been when she'd gone to the corner shop? The question is unsettling and she has to squeeze her eyes shut for a moment to steel herself against the rising anxiety. Harry's still on the phone, the low and obscure sound of his voice seeming to stretch into an unreachable distance. A buzzing. A kind of hum.

When it finally stills inside, her mind shuffling off into quiet — the watermelon dismissed, fear abating as quickly as it comes — she opens her eyes and lets her gaze roam. _It never bodes too well, the high always gives way to the low_. She takes in the couch in the corner, the lamp and table beside it and she catches the pale reaches of morning filtering in through the window. Dull and pink, nebulous as fuck. Another day. Another day. Another—

"'Mione, hey, listen," He's done it again, brought her back from wherever she's gone to the present. The absolute. That which _is._ His expression is a little pinched, he looks almost unsure of himself. "I've got to head out because they've called me in,"

She looks at him blankly for a moment, then gets to her feet a little unsteadily. Her smile isn't watery — it _isn't._ It's braver than it looks in her mind any way. "That's alright—" She hesitates, wondering, then takes the plunge anyway. "—but isn't it a little early?"

He grins at her then, almost seems to return to himself, squaring his shoulders and making his way over to her with that swaggering, self-assured walk of his. "Well, I'm a working man now and duty is calling, love," His eyes are twinkling and she can't help but smile when he reaches out to her with both his arms wide. A hug. Of all the blasted things.

She embraces him, morning breath and anxiety be damned. Solid, safe, stable. Harry hugs her tightly and she thinks her heart might be trembling at the force of this reassurance. "Can you do me a favour, Harry?" She mumbles into his shoulder, voice muffled against the soft fabric.

He steps back, keeping his hands on her shoulders and it's a more _steadying_ force than bloody fucking gravity. The past and the present. The Burrow and her flat. What has been and what is, all of it seems to double up for her as if they were both behind in time and strongly present in it but when she meets his enquiring gaze, she's clear in what she says.

"Can you give me a ride to Durmstrang? I want to go for a swim."

* * *

He turns the glistening tap, watching clear water rush out into the sink.

Abrupt movement at the side catches the side — it's a small spider, hastily crawling up the marble as if to make a dramatic retreat and his hand moves without instruction, without meaning. Water pools in his palm and he lets it drop over the innocuous, unknowing arachnid. Watches as the insect flails momentarily before the stream swirls it away into the drain. Drowned. He doesn't really know why he's done it. Some part of him feels strange about it, almost guilty? This part of him sounds discouraging and disappointed. Why, this part of him, seems to ask. Why? Because he can. Because he _can._

 _There_ it is. That enthralling sense of control. It makes his stomach knot.

Small cruelties. It seems like a lesson to him. Granted that he's had very little sleep and he hasn't seen Bellatrix in almost two days now, Tom can still make out a lesson in this. Small cruelties. All the lashings. All the silences. All the memories. All the dreams. Small cruelties. Because they could, they did. Because there's power to be had in the infliction of pain, there's _so much_ power to be found in visiting brutality upon another. There's _power._ He feels that itch to _hurt_ something disappear somewhere inside him— it's been with him all night, making it near impossible to consider anything else. He's been dazzled by it, ensnared even by the sheer possibilities of what he _could_ be. The image of the spider turning in the clear water is both trivial and immense in his mind — his neck feels hot and his hands are trembling. Some part of him is afraid. Another clearer, sharper part of him is triumphant.

He tears his gaze away from the shining silver of the drain and forces himself to look at his reflection in the mirror. The detachment is so acute in that moment that it's like regarding a _stranger_ , a physical entity that seems to exist _outside_ him. This person looks ill, sleepless and defeated. Almost discoloured. Grey even. If he had to push for a description, he would be pressed to use fucking _cliches_ like ghost and phantom. He scoffs at himself, thoroughly unimpressed by the fact that so much of him still relies on the _ordinary,_ on the _everyday._ It's sickening. He steps back from the sink and sucks in a breath harshly, looking away lest the recognition arrive. Lest he _see_ himself in the mirror.

He wills himself to move and makes his way to the bench where his sports bag is. Yanking open the side pocket's zip, he pulls out a fresh pack of Dunhills and Black's lighter. He looks hard at the lighter and that sharp little voice in his head berates him for his weakness — that subscription to sentimentality that Bellatrix would derride him for. It's a practical necessity, he seems to retort to this voice and lights the cigarette before he can think _too much_ about it. If he can't keep Alphard around, he most certainly can keep his bloody _fucking_ lighter instead.

A long, calming drag jolts him back from the idiotic internal conflict and he drops the lighter back in the bag. He's already in his swimwear and with one fleeting look over at the mirror — _the image and the person are no longer the same thing_ — he makes his way out of the changing rooms, leaving a trail of smoke behind him.

Durmstrang's Health and Wellness Centre is possibly one of the most famous places in the country. No doubt that most of mainstream media is committed to the pureblood project of consolidation, myth-making and glamour but Tom remembers the first time he'd seen the centre. It really had been something. Even now, stepping into the building makes him pause. It's not just the prestige of it — the incredibly long glass windows, the expansive rows of seats overlooking the fifty-metre pool, the sophisticated technology powering the sunroof, the chic side bakery that leads into the main reception hall, the sheer multitude of machines in the gym, the assortment of courts and fields, the elaborately posh spa — no, it's more than all of its materiality.

There's a compendium of experiences, of memories that this place holds for him. He regards his cigarette thoughtfully for a moment as he comes to a stop near the poolside. The blueness of the water is not as jarring as he'd expected — it's a space he's been in too many times. All those swimming competitions. The first dive, water bubbling forth, eyes adjusting. The sharp whistle, the raucous applause, Bellatrix's gorgeous fucking face distorted in the pool light, the cameras going off. Alphard's torso glimmering, beaded with water. The stench of chlorine. Cygnus cannon-balling into the water, after-hours. All of them lazing by the side, baked out of their fucking minds, champagne bottles by their feet. In quick succession, in vague flashes, as he smokes, all of these images come unbidden to him. The water makes a soft lapping sound in the distance and Tom feels that surge of pride again, that assertive sense of _who_ he has _become_ , that reassurance of having _fought_ for this. Last night's terror seems to leave him then, replaced by a deeper feeling. An unbreakable kind of calm. The kind of quiet he's never even felt with Bella and that's saying something. It's something he's found by himself, it seems and by sheer accident — a personal thing, something he can have all for himself. It's an alien thing, to be in full possession of this feeling. A destination he seems to have arrived at by way of memory, by way of connection. It makes his chest burn. It's all _his_ and _his only._

Fuck, maybe it's all the smoking.

That's when a door slams shut loudly, across the swimming hall, the sound echoing rather comically in the large space. He looks up immediately, caught so bloody fucking _unaware_ and his eyes fall onto the form of a familiar figure. There's not too many people out there with hair as abnormally messy as _that._ It takes a prolonged moment but their eyes finally meet.

Well, _she_ looks fucking _terrified._

* * *

Alphard discards his shirt in the laundry basket, glancing only for a second at the door of Tom's bedroom. He already knows that Riddle isn't there — he's already looked in, taken in the neatly made bed and the curtain pulled aside. It had been strange, to be in Tom's lived space without him there. Shaking his head as if to pull himself out of the shoddy spirals that are his feelings for Tom, he steps into the bathroom.

Off-white tiles, the large brass-framed mirror, the chipped vase by the sink. Bella had helped them pick these items. He wonders faintly where she might be, why she might be skipping this course so easily. Snape's an incredibly tough professor and his penchant for regular attendance is well-known amongst all of his students. Bella's many things but she's never wilfully irresponsible. He wonders if his concern is misplaced, then dismisses all thoughts of her regardless. While the idea of a luxurious bath in the tub is tempting, he's feeling practical this morning. On edge, but practical. So he picks the shower.

Setting his towel on the handrail, he shucks his boxers and steps into the glass cubicle. Turns the brass knob just slightly to the left, letting the deliciously warm stream of water envelop him. The violence of it is shockingly familiar and it draws him back to last week, before the course had started, before the assignment had rolled, before before before. The memory unfurls like a series of indefinite suggestions — that hot and greedy mouth, the force of those fingers wrapped around his throat, the slender leg brushing against his hip and _fuck,_ those impossible eyes on him, issuing a challenge and a warning both.

His body responds to the recollection instantly, his chest hot and his legs weak. His cock is hard already and he _hates_ himself for being so wanton. Like a prepubescent boy with no self control. It's fucking disgusting. That he can be so depraved, so stunningly foolish. He remembers everything in disturbingly clear detail — the exact scrape of teeth against his neck, the heel of a palm digging into his hip, the red hot feeling in the pit of his stomach, the vase tipping over when he threw his arm out to grab something, _anything_.

He remembers and his body trembles, slick under the shower stream, his hand slips down — no no no no no no no— god, _yes_ — his fingers wrapping around his cock, trying to bring the memory to life, mimicking _that_ touch, _aching_ for it. His eyes fall shut and he clenches his teeth, keeping his hand still, _refusing_ to give in to his worst impulse. How can he _still_ react like this? It's been years, it's been _fucking_ years and just the _memory_ of Tom Riddle has him stroking his cock with a horny fucking teenager.

No, no, he _can_ resist this. He hasn't done anything yet. His hand's firmly wrapped around his cock, but he can resist it. He can —fuck, the _way_ that Tom feels pressed against him, slender and lithe like perfect fucking marble. Tom's face flashes in his mind, his gaze hungry, his mouth angry with desire and Alphard can all but _taste_ the kiss. The fury of it. The possession of it. He can _feel_ Tom's breath scattering over his neck like it did last night. Just that nearness. That promise of _something._ The anger pulses through his veins and his breaths are coming in short, hurried spurts and Alphard _knows_ he's fighting a losing fight.

It's fucking agonising and then he's giving in, delirious for wanting Tom _so_ much and fucking _repulsed_ by his own weaknesses. He strokes his cock harshly, in deft and practiced movement; warm water spills around him brokenly and his legs feel like they might give out any fucking second. _Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck._ The curve of Tom's perfect fucking neck. The clenching of his slender fingers when Alphard's hand trailed his waistband. The infuriated look he'd given when Alphard had chosen not to _touch_ him just _yet._ Tom's eyes, his fucking eyes, like a goddamned magnet. Refusing to pull away. A black hole. Threatening to flay him open. Alphard's hand is trembling now and he can feel the coil tighten impossibly in his gut, his eyes fluttering, his breaths staggered and then he's coming hard and fast, all but doubling over with the hot force of it, boneless and raw.

Seconds slip by, his harsh breathing steadying over the run of time and he lets the water rush all over him, cooling the heat of his body. He moves almost mechanically for the shower gel, rubbing his hands together as if to rid himself of the _shameful_ act. It unnerves him, how _angry_ this desire makes him, how _mindless_ he becomes when it comes to Tom. His body feels bruised, drained even and the day hasn't even begun. He doesn't know how he'll face Tom later — _if_ he'll be able to. The thought of it worries him. Their assignment is tomorrow and Alphard knows better than to fuck things up. He straightens, rubbing the soap into his torso and stomach as the water simultaneously washes it off. He's done in ten minutes thereafter and he shuts off the shower, breathing in deeply to steady himself.

It's alright. It's fine. It's over. He's made a mistake but it's a mistake he's made on his own, a mistake nobody knows about, a mistake he need never repeat again. It's _his_ mistake. There's no Tom here to be guilty with, no Tom here to exchange sharp words with, no Tom to look away from, no Tom to _hurt_ him. Alphard clears his throat and towels himself dry swiftly, switching over to that carefully detached mode of his. Nothing will now take longer than necessary. If he wants to get through this day without _cocking_ things up like a _fucking_ child — cocking quite _literally_ , it seems — then he's going to have to pull his shit together.

He steps out of the cubicle onto the soft bathroom mat — a soft shade of lilac that had made Bella giggle for thirty seconds straight — and the ground is solid, flat, _real_ beneath him. Just a mistake, a careless mistake but _nothing_ that can't be undone, _nothing_ that can't be forgotten. He looks over at the chipped vase for a second and his cock twitches, his heart ramming hard in his chest. It's still _there._ That frustratingly quick _impulse_ of his. He grits his teeth hard and turns away, striding purposefully out of the bathroom.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

* * *

It's _him._

It takes legitimate physical force for Hermione to keep her feet firmly planted on the ground and to will her arms to stay where they are, despite feeling an incredibly _stupid_ , thoroughly _irrational_ urge to _cover_ herself as if that might _somehow_ obscure her from view. Gritting her teeth to keep from letting loose a string of expletives because how could she be so fucking _foolish?_ \- she scolds herself for feeling _vulnerable,_ of all things. She's in a full piece swimming suit. Her body isn't something to be _ashamed_ of. She's real good with her punches too, if it should come to that. She's Hermione _fucking_ Granger and she's not _afraid_ of some handsome fucking Pureblood _tosh_ from her school. She's not. She's _not._

But she sure does wish that the ground would open up and swallow her.

Fucking swallow her up so she doesn't have to have this impending conversation. So she doesn't have to explain her unallowed 'Mudblood' presence to this fancy fucking Pureblood arsehole. The viciousness of her feelings scares her just a little and she attempts to school her expression, to render her face impassive the way she's seen Snape do so many times in class. So what if she didn't expect anybody to be here this early? So what if she sneaked in from the side of the Gym, using a specifically unlocked fire exit? So what if she's a Mudblood and he's a Pureblood? So what so what so what so what so what so what? As he makes his way over to her — silently, almost ominously, like the physical manifestation of a warning sign, it brings to mind the last time she was alone with a Pureblood (Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy).

Tom Riddle is closer now, and clearer — and, _he_ looks like he hasn't slept in days. His hair is rather disheveled and his eyes are impressively blank. There's no smile, no look of recognition, no kind of acknowledgement— there's nothing. His face is _impassive._ She wonders distantly how it is that even in his least put-together form, he's _still_ able to perform this kind of elegance. It seems to emanate from his entire being — a kind of refinement that makes his movements purposeful, that softens the edge he has to his features, that seems to render him a picture of spoilt perfection. She _hates_ how her eyes survey his face — the cut of his jaw makes her stomach flip — then flit to his bare chest — he's leaner than the photos had implied — curious gaze flickering over to note the plethora of tattoos along his well-built arms — all those _details_ that she couldn't make out on Facebook.

It's one thing to think somebody's bloody fucking _attractive_ from the relative safe distance that the classroom provides and to go traipsing around their social media profiles when you're _alone_ at home and _then_ it's a whole _other_ thing to be faced with that very same _person_ in a bloody fucking swimsuit at 6AM in the morning in a centre from which you've been barred entry. She can play it cool, she can play it so _fucking_ cool, she can play—

"You don't even have a _LinkedIn_ account,"

Those are the first words out of Tom Riddle perfect mouth. It makes all of Hermione's speeding thoughts come to a thundering kind of halt. He sounds _incredulous?_ Wait - what the fuck, is he _sneering_ at her Malfoy style? Do they _all_ follow the same asshole-ish code of conduct? The sneer doesn't mar his face, only seems to become it and she amuses herself with the image of all these Purebloods sitting around, practising their curated disdain and snobbery so as to achieve some kind of uniform perfection.

She'd expected a sharp rebuke or a disparaging remark about her presence or maybe even a repeat of her time in Hogwarts ( _fightfightfightfightfight_ ) and she'd run through so many comebacks, so many smart quips with which to disarm him but he's _blindsided_ her.

It's not entirely surprising therefore that all Hermione _fucking_ Granger, linguistic mastermind and snark queen extraordinaire, can muster up amidst her growing confusion is a stuttering "Wha... _what_?"

Awful. So bloody awful. If Ginny were here, she'd smack Hermione around the fucking head.

"I find it remarkable that in this day and age, you wouldn't even have a _LinkedIn_ ," He responds with such an obvious edge to his voice that it makes _her_ feel profoundly _stupid_.

There. Thrown the fuck off her high horse. _Again_. What is going on? Is Tom Marvolo Riddle tripping balls?

"I...what?" She blinks at him. "Are you— are you like high or something?"

When he doesn't respond, choosing instead to level her with an almost amused kind of smirk, she panics internally. So he's not high. Or he is and he isn't telling her. How can she make out the difference? Is this some kind of a new mind-game? Did she not get the memo when the world turned itself over into a dark parody of the status quo? What on Earth does Riddle want with _her?_ Why does he know she doesn't have a LinkedIn? Why does he _care?_ Wait wait wait, hang on...he's probably mistaken her for somebody else. Fuck, that makes so much _more_ sense.

Hermione can't believe how paranoid she's been. He seems to notice the tension drop away from her shoulders and to her growing horror, his smirk now looks challenging. And bemused. As if she's _missed_ something.

The words fall out of her mouth in a jumbled mess, a floundering attempt to put this conversation onto some kind of track, "Look, Riddle," His eyes seem to flicker at the mention of his name, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "...I think you've got the wrong person. I don't know if you're...well, if you're baked or not, but I'm almost certain I'm not who you're looking for...so if…" She pauses so as to regard him again. "...if you don't mind, I'll just be on my w-"

"I know who you are, _Granger_ ," He cuts her off with another one of those sneers, bringing so much of Malfoy's bigotry to mind. "You punched Malfoy in fourth year."

She flinches. Since when did that become the _prime_ identifier for Hermione Granger? There's just the barest undertone of accusation. Surprise and fear must change her face because he straightens up a little. Is this some fucked up way of intimidating her? Is he going to threaten her? Is that what this is? _What_ has Malfoy told him?

When she speaks, her voice is stronger than she feels on the inside. "How...why do you know that? Have you...been looking me up?"

There's a long silence and the intensity of his gaze levelled upon her face seems to spawn a kind of _itch_ that warms her cheeks, making her fingers restless with an urge to hide herself from view. Just when she thinks she can't bear the _fucking_ quiet — _when_ had swearing become so integral to her internal musing? — he speaks.

"I'm curious," He steps forward, close enough for her to smell smoke, close enough for her to note the hazel tint to his eyes, close enough for her to be equal parts discomfort and _fear._ "I'm curious about why a Muggle, such as yourself..." He tips his head in her direction. "...would physically assault a Pureblood. Alone. At Hogwarts. In broad daylight."

Her cheeks are flushed, she can't seem to _move_ or look away — she's absolutely mortified at his bemused recounting. She can't tell if he's mocking her or issuing some kind of twisted warning.

"Either you're very stupid, Granger — or you're very brave." He sums up in that same meandering sort of tone, his gaze unwavering. Another step forward. How is it that he should get _prettier_ up close?

Increasingly aware of their physical proximity, she can tell exactly _why_ everybody's so goddamn attracted to him. "Which is it?" He flashes another devastating smirk her way. "Are you stupid or are you brave?"

"Purebloods have never scared me," She says slowly with remarkable composure, letting her nails dig harshly into her palms to keep that old and _ugly_ fear at bay.

"Brave it is then," He concedes and takes a measured step back.

Hermione hadn't realized how his nearing physical presence seemed to have sucked all the air out of her lungs — fucking instinctual _fear_ — but with him moving away, she expels rushing breath with a newfound appreciation for personal space.

He's still looking at her but something in him seems to have drastically altered. His gaze lands heavy on her and it's like she's back in the Great Hall, at the mercy of Pansy's ridicule. The hard set to his mouth reminds her of the _exact_ force with which Hestia Carrow had shoved her into the bathroom wall.

"It would do you well to remember something, Granger," He mutters darkly, her surname drawn out like a slur. _This_ she recognizes. _This_ she knows. _This_ she fears. "Not all of us are as foolish as Malfoy..." His mouth curls. "...or as _forgiving_."

He turns away abruptly and walks off, the victory of the last word sat light on his firm shoulders. Dimly the absurd and hormonal part of her mind registers that Tom Riddle has a _really_ attractive back while the rest of her thoughts scramble to take full note of his _warning._ She remains rooted at the spot, eyes following him as he orchestrates a perfect dive into the swimming pool and then as he swims across with practised ease. The surreality of the situation only seems to heighten as she watches him reach the other side, tattooed arm striking out to anchor himself at the edge.

In an odd daze, she finds herself turning around when he goes under the surface. Her legs move by their own accord and his parting words seem to _blare_ in her head as if they were bloody fucking LED lights. The fear arrives in full force just as she's pushing the doors open to the changing rooms — cursing Harry's _stupid_ alarm, cursing Hestia's _ugly_ voice, cursing _bloody_ fucking Facebook, cursing _herself_ for deciding to come for a goddamn _swim_ in a Centre that is clearly out of bounds. It makes her dry-heave and bend over and then she's laughing hysterically, maniacally, breaths coming hard and fast, her body shuddering.

Who would have thought. What the hell. What the hell. _Who_ would have thought?

Tom Riddle, a Pureblood kingpin who has ensnared just about _everybody,_ just asked _her — irrelevant_ knockover Muggle —about a _LinkedIn_ account.

* * *

 **A/N:** It's taken me a horribly long time to get back to this but I hope I see it through. Tom and Hermione have finally met! Drop in a word if you wish to and let me know what you think or make of it. Hope the summer's been kind to you! Promising far more literature in the next chapter.


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